


Flying

by trynathink



Series: be still, my foolish heart [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bullying, F/M, M/M, chronic magical illness, mentions of abuse, takes place only during grace's first year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-11-12 00:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 179,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trynathink/pseuds/trynathink
Summary: Grace wants a broomstick like James, she wants an owl like James, and, most of all, she wants to go to Hogwarts like James.





	1. Stars

By the age of ten, Grace Potter was sure she was St. Mungo’s most frequent visitor. She was sure she was the most frequent visitor of hospitals in the _world_ , seeing as her parents had dragged her off to France, Romania, India, and countless other places in the hopes of finding some Healer who might know the cure to Hywell’s disease. Grace had been to Healers who specialized in blood curses, shamans who spent their entire lives tapping into magical energies, and—once—a shifty-eyed woman she highly suspected was an ex-Unspeakable who had studied brains.

But there was no cure, at least none that had been discovered yet. It was as Grace’s primary Healer, Aisha Kane, had said all those years ago: the only medicine was time. This didn’t exactly stop Grace’s parents from taking up every Healer on their suggestions and recommendations about how to lessen Grace’s pain—even if said suggestions or recommendations were complete bollocks. Like that Romanian Healer—some or the other Dragomir—who had told Grace’s parents that prolonged exposure to items heavily imbued with magic might exacerbate Grace’s paroxysm. Such items included pensieves, sentient objects, and, of course,  _broomsticks_.

Grace sulked in the shade of a hornbeam tree as she watched her older brother whizz about the backyard on a Cleansweep. He had gotten it for his eleventh birthday back in March, and had been riding it pretty much every day since. In the beginning, James had let Grace tag along on training broomsticks (whose magic was weak and less likely to trigger a paroxysm), but the pace of training broomsticks was slow and they only floated one and a half feet off the ground _at most_. So, eventually, James began flying without Grace, racing to the shed to grab the Cleansweep when he thought Grace was still sleeping or busy reading, so that he didn’t have to tell her he’d rather not wait around for her anymore.

It didn’t really matter, though. He might as well have screamed to her face that she was a drag.

She glowered at James over the edge of _Tales from the Selkies_ , which had been one of the many books she had received for her own birthday in January. Apparently, books were the only acceptable present for Grace nowadays. Books were harmless, which, in Grace’s mind, was just another word for boring. They sat in stacks on the half-bookshelf in Grace’s room, slowly collecting dust and cobwebs.

James let out a great cry of joy as he managed a loop-de-loop on his broom, swinging by another tree. The end of his broomstick snagged in one of the tree’s scraggly branches, and James’s joyous shout turned into one of fear as he fell against the bark of the tree.

He slid down against the tree roughly, thudding against the dirt. The broomstick fell down besides him a half-second later.

“Are you okay?” Grace called out from the other end of the backyard.

James gave her a thumbs up, but when he rose, he winced. He raced over to Grace, his jet black hair windswept and untidier than normal. His tanned skin shone gold in the sunlight, and the corners of Grace’s lips dipped. Her skin was like a pale imitation of James’s, pallid and peaky. It might have been more like James’s—healthy and robust—had Grace spent less days confined in a hospital ward and more out in the sun.

“I think I’ve got a bruise,” James said, and there was no worry in it. James never worried about anything. He didn’t have to. “I’m gonna ask Mum for the paste and ask Dotty for a strawberry pastry. Do you want one?”

Grace thought about it. “Can you ask Dotty for pumpkin juice?”

“I don’t wanna carry _juice_ for you—”

“Why not?” Grace demanded. “I helped you sneak into Dad’s study to get wombat whiskers, and you can’t get me some _juice_?”

“I have to carry it down the stairs, and what if it spills?”

“Then clean it up!”

James made a face. “Then I’ve got to spend twenty minutes cleaning up a mess that could have been avoided if you just asked me to get you something _easy_ —like a pastry.”

“Ugh— _fine_ —I don’t want anything.” Grace rose her book up higher, so it eclipsed James’s face from her sight. “Go away, Jam-jam.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that—”

“ _Jam-jam_ ,” Grace said louder.

“Gummy Grace,” James taunted back. “Do you remember that, Grace? When you got gum stuck in your— _ow_!”

Grace had thrown her book at him, and it collided against his chest.

“I’m telling Mum!” James said immediately. “You’ve probably made my bruise _worse_.”

Grace’s brows rose in alarm. “No, wait—James, I’m _sorry_ —” James scoffed, and any semblance of sorry Grace felt vanished instantly. She scowled at him. “If you tell Mum, I’ll tell Dad what you did with the wombat whiskers.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t. You’d get in trouble, too.”

“Try me.”

They stared at each other for a moment, stuck in a tense silence. Finally, James relented.

“ _Fine_ ,” James said, turning away. “Prat.”

“Git.”

Grace rose to get her book as James bounded towards the Potter cottage and disappeared through the backdoor. As Grace turned back to her seat at the base of the hornbeam tree, she caught sight of James’s unattended Cleansweep. It was a rare moment when James and the Cleansweep weren’t together, and even rarer when James wasn’t there and the Cleansweep wasn’t in the shed.

Grace chewed her tongue, and took a step forward. Surely just _five_ minutes on James’s broom would be fine? She’d just zip around the backyard once—just _once_ —and put it back before James came back. No one would know.

A smile grew on Grace’s lips. _Sod that Romanian Healer_ , she thought happily, letting her book fall to the ground as she raced to the broom.

“Up,” she commanded, and her hazel eyes gleamed when the Cleansweep flew into her outstretched palm.

Grace put one leg over the broom and gripped the front of the broomstick with both hands. She faced towards the house, and kicked against the ground fiercely. She rose a few feet off the ground, which was nothing new to Grace. It was roughly the same height training broomsticks hovered at. What was new, however, was the pure exhilaration that filled Grace when she leaned forward.

The Cleansweep bolted forward, and Grace laughed in delight. Her wild, wavy dark hair was tousled by the wind, and Grace relished the feeling. As she neared the cottage, she swerved to the left, pulling up on the broom sharply and whizzing by the hornbeam tree earlier. She did one lap about the backyard, but quickly decided it wasn’t enough. The feeling of weightlessness, the throw of the broom whenever Grace veered too hard, the searing gaze of the unobscured sun on her face—it was addictive. Grace wanted to spend the rest of her life like this: flying and flying and never stopping.

But all good things must come to an end, and the end to Grace’s forbidden flying session came in the form of her appalled older brother.

“ _Grace_!” he cried out, equal parts irate and horrified. In his right hand was a single strawberry pastry and in the other was a goblet of iced pumpkin juice. “ _Grace_! If you don’t stop now, I’m getting Mum—”

Grace brought the broom down, touching base with the ground. She was still beaming, and her harried hair spilled over her shoulders messily. “Sorry, I just wanted to try it out—”

“You’re not allowed to,” James said immediately. He thrust the pumpkin juice to Grace and grabbed his broom back. His lips were twisted into a terrible frown, and Grace didn’t like it. James was annoying, yes, but he never got angry. “It makes you sick.”

Grace’s frown matched James’s almost exactly. “No, it doesn’t! It’s just something that Healer said so he could suck all the fun out of my life.”

“Well he’s a Healer and you’re a kid, so I reckon he knows a lot more than you do. I’m going to tell Mum and Dad.”

“ _No_!” Grace started. “No, you _can’t_ tell them—”

“I’m _supposed_ to tell them when you break rules about your disease—”

“Don’t call it a _disease_ —”

“That’s what it is!”

“Say ‘condition,’” Grace said stubbornly. That was what Healer Kane called it, and Grace vastly preferred ‘condition’ to ‘disease.’ ‘Condition’ sounded like something Grace was in control of, whereas ‘disease’ sounded, well, ugly. “I’ve got a _condition_. And don’t tell Mum and Dad! I was _barely_ on the broomstick. Nothing’s going to happen.”

James stared at Grace for a moment. The frown had long slipped off his face, but his eyes still retained the initial worry. James never had qualms about breaking rules. When it came to staying out of Dad’s study and not bothering the elderly Mrs. Bagshot down the road, James had no problem with doing just the opposite. But when it came to Grace—little Grace with her sun-deprived skin and bags under her eyes—James found straying from the rules very difficult.

“Promise not to do it again?”

“Yes,” Grace said, not intending anything of the sort. “I promise.”

“Then I won’t tell Mum or Dad,” James decided.

He set his broom down and spit in his right hand. Grace did the same, and they shook on it. Afterwards, each tried to wipe their saliva onto the other and laughed when they both succeeded.

* * *

Whenever Grace or James felt particularly affectionate or if they had something to talk about, they spent the night together. James usually slept over in Grace’s room whenever Grace came back from a long stay at St. Mungo’s. Tired and aching, Grace would collapse onto her bed as soon as her parents brought her home. Late into the evening, the door would creak open, and James would creep inside with his largest, poofiest blanket and a thick pillow.

But tonight was no such night. She heard the door open and saw, from the faint sliver of light that came through the crack, James’s blanket dragging against the floor.

“What is it?” Grace asked curiously, shifting over on her rather large bed. It had been a very long time since James had a nightmare, and even then he usually went to Mum and Dad’s room instead of Grace’s.

James clambered onto Grace’s bed. “I’m just really excited!”

Grace snuggled deeper into her own quilt. “About shopping at Diagon Alley?”

“Yes! I can’t wait to get fitted for robes—do you think they’ll stitch on the Gryffindor crest for me if I ask?”

“You haven’t been Sorted yet, so probably not.”

“But I _know_ I’m going to be in Gryffindor.”

“What if you’re in Hufflepuff instead?”

James scoffed. “I’m too colorful for Hufflepuff.”

‘Colorful’ was a word their Mum often used to describe James. Grace wondered how long it would take James to realize that it wasn’t exactly a compliment.

“What about Ravenclaw?”

“Too colorful,” he repeated.

“Slytherin?”

“I’ll quit Hogwarts if I’m placed in Slytherin.”

“No, you won’t. You love it too much. Hogwarts is all you’ve been talking about since you got your letter.”

“I promise you I’ll quit if I’m Sorted into Slytherin.” James spat into his hand and practically shoved it into Grace’s face.

Grace batted his hand away. “I’m not making a promise with you about that. Wipe your hand on your blanket.”

He wiped it on Grace’s instead. Grace kicked him. He kicked her back, and then immediately apologized and asked that she not tell Mum.

“What wand do you think you’re going to get?” Grace asked after a moment.

“I dunno—but I hope it’s got dragon in it.”

“Dad told me about a rhyme that says people with rowan wands gossip a lot, so that’ll probably be your wand wood.”

“I don’t _gossip_ —”

“You’re always chatting about other people.”

“Because I’m _observant_. Because I’m _interested_ in the world,” James protested. “Besides, who cares what wand wood I get? It’s all a bunch of nonsense. I’m  _most_  excited about getting an owl—”

“Wait, Mum and Dad said you get to have an owl?”

“Yeah! They said it’ll be okay since it’ll be with me at Hogwarts and not here. And, when I’m home for the summer, I can keep it with Hester in Dad’s study so it won’t bother you. I told Mum I wanted a golden owl, but she said she doesn’t think Eeylops has those, so maybe I’ll get a silvery one instead.”

“But how come they’re letting you get an owl?” Grace stared up at her ceiling, a frown stitched tightly into her face.

The Potter family had a strict no pets policy—save for Hester, who was kept in a special area in Dad’s study—because one of the many Healers Grace had been to said magical animals, like owls and kneazles, would disrupt the magical energy Grace’s body was trying to channel and worsen her condition. It was all theory and hypothesis, but Grace’s parents did not want to take any chances. They had even wanted to get rid of Hester, but the owl was old and had been a part of the family for so long that they couldn’t go through with it. Instead, they forbid Grace from entering her father’s study.

But now _James_ was getting an owl, and Grace didn’t see how that was fair at all. He could just borrow one of the school owls when he was at Hogwarts. Or send letters using Hester.

“Because I got into Hogwarts,” James said. “It’s my present.”

“That’s dumb,” Grace said immediately. “You didn’t even do anything. Anyone with even a drop of magical blood can get into Hogwarts.”

“It’s my present,” James said again, and Grace didn’t miss the sour tone.

“It’s not fair.”

“Mum and Dad will get you something when you get into Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, but it won’t be an owl.”

Grace’s throat was beginning to close in. She didn’t want to talk about Mum or Dad or owls anymore. She wanted James to leave her room so she could go to sleep, but she didn’t want to upset James any further. Grace turned to the other side of her bed, her back facing James, and shut her eyes tight.

“They’ll get you something better than an owl,” James said, but nothing in his voice made it sound like he believed there was anything better than an owl. “I’ll let you name my owl, if it makes you feel better.”

“I’m sleepy, James. Goodnight.”

“Okay…. Night.” James shifted around as well.

He knew she was lying, because Grace had trouble sleeping at night. Grace spent so much time unconscious after suffering through a paroxysm that the thought of voluntary going unconscious for a night terrified her. So, she often lay awake in her bed, staring up at her ceiling, which had been enchanted to mimic the shift of stars across the night sky. But Grace didn’t want to face the ceiling, because then she would be able to see James’s form in her periphery.

Instead, Grace kept herself turned on her side, eyes steadfastly closed. She thought about what it might be like to receive her own brand new broom, what the inside of Eeylops looked like, and what she might name her own owl if she ever got the chance to own one. And, soon, the tightness in her throat eased away and Grace fell asleep.

* * *

When Grace awoke the next morning, it was because she felt like something was drilling into her temples. It was like someone had decided something very precious was inside Grace’s head and was slowly but steadily trying to get it out by scraping away at her skull. Grace grit her teeth and swung out of bed, glancing to her left.

James’s blanket and pillow had been left behind in a heap. He must have woken up early and gotten too excited about Hogwarts shopping to stay in bed. Grace rubbed at her temples as she walked to the bathroom to brush her teeth and freshen up. She knew this was a tell-tale sign that her paroxysm was acting up, but she hoped she might be able to keep it under control long enough so that nothing happened until after they came back from Diagon Alley. She might have been a bit jealous of James, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to see him choose his wand and fuss over robes.

After she changed into a forest green robe, she headed downstairs, and found James in the living area. He was breathing heavily, and there was a smudge of dirt across his cheek. Clearly, he had just come in from a flying session. Dad was sitting in the comforter, and his large, dark brown eyes were gleaming behind the wire spectacles that were seated precariously at the tip of his nose.

“Marvelous, James!” Dad announced. “You’re a natural! I’m so very proud of you. You know what? You ought to own your own Quidditch league, James!”

Grace went near her Dad and leaned against the side of the comforter. She raised her brow at James.

“Er—” James began.

“Which team is doing well?” Dad asked. “Which one is your favorite?”

“Well, I like Puddlemere an awful lot, but—”

“We should buy Puddlemere! Oh, I can see it now: Gryffindor colors—crimson and gold—for the jerseys. You know Falmouth has such grand, open fields. We can set up a training pitch there. We can give a free bottle of Sleekeazy’s with the purchase of every ticket to gain traction—”

“Dad—”

“Oh, you’re right!” Dad huffed, slumping back into the seat. His white, wild hair clashed terribly with the charcoal of the fabric. “We’ll be out of Sleekeazy’s before we’re out of tickets. Dear Merlin—what was I thinking? Sleekeazy’s will be bankrupt before we know it! We’ll have to forfeit Piddlemore, cut our losses. Oh, and with the low morale, the team is bound to lose a couple of games. Who can blame the poor chaps? But that will only decrease their selling value—”

“ _Dad_!” James cut in. “Dad, I don’t _want_ to buy a Quidditch team.”

Dad blinked owlishly at James. “That’s _precisely_ what I’m saying, James. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Honestly—it’s too much trouble—”

“You don’t even own Sleekeazy’s anymore, Dad,” Grace pointed out.

“Yes, and what a good decision I made selling the company.” Dad relaxed into couch. “We would be bankrupt now if I hadn’t. Thank you for pointing that out, Grace. You’ve got a keen eye for business.” Dad suddenly started forward. “Galloping gargoyles—I should have passed on Sleekeazy’s to _you_!”

“Er—” Grace gave James a long side glance.

“I’m staying out of this one,” James muttered, backing out of the room and into the dining area.

“I bet you would have come up with another bestseller,” Dad nodded. “Oh, but how could I have looked after the company while you got old enough to inherit it? I would have had to sacrifice time with you and James! I’d be too busy toddling around with new potions and dealers. I wouldn’t have even had time to see James flying, and then how could I have bought him his Poddlemare team?”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Grace said in the most soothing voice she could muster. It came out more strained than anything. The pounding in her head grew more insistent. “I didn’t want Sleekeazy’s anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

“Yes, yes, right you are. You’ve got the same head for business as I do. I thought the same, Gracie. I thought the same.” He smiled down tenderly at her and smoothed back her unruly dark hair. “Excited for today?”

“You mean excited to watch James fawn over broomsticks and cauldrons for four hours?”

“I’ll buy you something, too, Grace,” he promised. “Although we’ll save the school supplies for when you’re actually off to Hogwarts.” He brightened. “Shall we stop by Fortescue’s before we begin our shopping? If you’ve got a delicious sundae to keep you company, it won’t be so boring watching James pick between size 2 and size 2.5 cauldrons.”

Grace laughed. “James _has_ to get a size 2 cauldron, Dad. It says so on the list! He’ll get in trouble, otherwise.”

“You’re telling me that _our_ James won’t find some way to get his hands on a size 2.5 cauldron so that he can swipe a little extra of every potion he makes in his class to use for pranks?” Dad winked at Grace. “I may be old, but don’t think for a second I don’t know exactly what either of you are up to.”

“Dad, I don’t doubt that for a second...but don’t you think James is much more likely to get a size 1.5 cauldron so he doesn’t use as many ingredients making his potions? That way, when it comes time to make the mass Giggling Potion he’s planning to make, he’ll have enough excess ingredients?”

Dad stared at Grace for a second before bursting out laughing, and Grace joined him for a bit before wincing at a particularly painful throb that flashed through her head.

“Alright, Gracie?” Dad said. His brows furrowed, and his lips twisted from the lighthearted smile he had previously worn to a concerned frown.

“Yes,” Grace said immediately, and slinked away from her father hurriedly.

She joined her brother in the dining area, where he was being scolded by Mum for the mud that he had picked up along the trim of his robes.

“Honestly, James,” Mum said, vanishing any trace of dirt from James’s clothes with a swish of her wand. “You were only out for twenty minutes.”

Grace sat herself by the window, watching Dotty, the Potters’ aged house-elf, busy herself around the kitchen. Dotty was prepping some porridge while simultaneously cleaning up some tea that had spilled across the countertop.

“Mum, Mum—can we stop by Quality Quidditch first?” James asked, sitting across from Grace. His eyes were exactly the same as Grace’s, but they were alight with enthusiasm while Grace’s were dour.

“Why in Godric’s good name would you have to stop by a Quidditch shop?” Mum said. “You know first-years aren’t allowed to play Quidditch, and you’ll be provided brooms along with everyone else during flying lessons.”

“But I already _know_ how to fly. Can’t you write Dumbledore and ask him if I could skip flying lessons and try out for the team instead?” James’s whining was irritating, and it only made the pounding in Grace’s head fiercer.

“I most certainly will _not_ , James. You know, I had a great-uncle who tried a similar sort of thing at the Ministry. He wrote to the Minister asking for a position as Undersecretary, but he had _forged_ his credentials—”

She stared at the poinsettia-patterned tablecloth, trying to drown out James’s high voice and Mum’s sharp replies. Each throb across her temples felt like lightning was striking her brain. Grace grasped the sides of her chair with both hands, and the grip was so strong, her knuckles were taut.

“Grace?” Mum’s voice was warbled. “Darling, are you okay?”

“Yes,” Grace bit out, but she wasn’t.

It was getting worse, and the world was getting dark. The poinsettias that dotted the tablecloth were getting more and more shadowy, until Grace couldn’t see them anymore, until the whole of Grace’s vision had gone pitch black. She blinked, but it didn’t erase away the darkness. It never did.

“Mum, I think—” Grace began, but never finished.

The convulsions never got easier. It always felt like it was happening for the first time. Grace gasped. Her whole body went rigid as a board, and then it broke in half. Or, at least, it felt like it was breaking in half. It felt like every bone in Grace’s body was snapping at once. She felt like her arms were breaking, and her legs, and—somehow—her ribs. She couldn’t tell how, couldn’t even tell if she was moving very much or at all. Grace was seized so completely by the pain that she lost all coherence of thought.

Stars were bursting in her head, and it wasn’t beautiful in the slightest. It was explosive and terrifying, and it was eating her from the inside out. Her mind felt like one very large fabric that was slowly being burned. She saw so many colors, and they were brighter than the sun, sharper than any thorn.

Grace screamed. She always did, although she was never fully aware of it. Grace screamed and screamed, until she did not, until the supernova in her head flared one last time before dying out.

* * *

When Grace came to, it only took a moment to realize she was in the Mabyn Gwawr ward at St. Mungo’s. Grace shifted in her hospital bed, passing her arm over her eyes to shield herself from the too-bright lights. She sat up in her bed, and rubbed her eyes.

“How do you feel, darling?” Mum’s voice floated by her ears.

“Okay,” Grace croaked out, although that wasn’t entirely true. Her entire body ached, and the back of her voice was terribly dry. “How long’s it been?”

“Two days.”

Grace slumped against her bedrest. “Did James go shopping yet?”

“Your Dad took him,” Mum said softly. She smoothed back Grace’s hair, trying to tame the mess. Her hands felt cool against Grace’s feverish forehead. “Don’t you worry about it.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I know he was excited.”

“It’s not your fault in the slightest…although, you oughtn’t be playing with James’s broomstick. You know that, Grace.”

Grace’s eyes snapped to her mother’s. “He told you?”

“He was worried to death, Grace.” Mum’s dark green eyes were watery. She brushed her hand across her eyes once before drawing away from Grace. She reached for her wand, and when she waved it in the air, a silvery owl appeared near her feet. “She’s awake.” The Patronus vanished with the message, and Mum put her wand away. “I’ll wait for your father and James to come before I get Healer Kane. I don’t want to leave you on your own.”

“Okay,” Grace said, but it wasn’t. She wanted to be on her own.

“Did you feel anything different than all the other times?”

“No. It was the same. Did I do anything different?”

“No, it was the same,” she said, and her voice trembled. “Darling, I was reading about Muggle medicine the other day, and the field is far more advanced than ours. They’ve conducted scientific research about the brain. How would you feel about going to a Muggle Healer? Perhaps they’ve come up with something for this.”

“It’s not going to work, Mum.” Grace fiddled with the starch sheets before looking up. “It never does.”

Mum’s eyes were still damp, and there were dark circles underneath. Her silver-streaked hair was harried and tied back in a loose, untidy bun. “But suppose we just _tried_. One of my second cousins on my father’s side went to a Muggle Healer to get an ingrown toenail removed, and they did it quite speedily—”

“I haven’t got an ingrown toenail, Mum.”

“Well, I know that, darling, but I’m just saying these Muggle Healers seem rather _capable_ —”

“ _We’re here!_ ” James’s voice was louder than a foghorn, and several nearby patients and Healers shushed him as he barreled into the ward, Dad hot on his heels.

James was carrying three different bags in his arms, and they were so large that his head just barely peeked over them. He came over and dumped all the bags on one of the chairs near Grace’s bedside before proceeding to climb onto the end of Grace’s hospital bed.

“James!” Mum scolded, but Grace was already moving to make James space.

“How’s my favorite girl in the world doing?” Dad asked, hugging her.

“I’m fine, Dad.”

He tousled her hair. “Of course you are. You’re stronger than the lot of us.”

She cracked a smile. “Sorry I couldn’t come shopping.”

“That’s okay!” James said. He was grinning. “It wasn’t that fun, anyway. Dad wouldn’t let me go into Quality Quidditch, and he told Madam Malkin to just give me a set of standard robes.” He snatched one of the bags off the chair, and pulled out the robes from within. “See! She added more fabric to the bottom, because apparently I’m tall for my age, but there’s no crest.”

James threw the robe over the bed, and Grace touched the plain black fabric disinterestedly.

Mum pressed a kiss to the side of Grace’s forehead before getting up. “Darling, we’re going to get Healer Kane, now. James, watch after your sister.”

James gave Mum a mock salute, which she returned warmly before taking Dad by the arm. Grace watched them exit the ward quickly, and then turned back to James.

“So, you’ve just brought your set of robes?” she said dryly.

“I got _silver scales_ ,” James said, taking another bag. He pulled them out, and Grace tapped at it curiously. “And I got a matching silver cauldron with it.”

“I thought you’re supposed to get pewter?”

“Dad didn’t check. Besides, if they say anything, I’ll just transfigure it into a pewter one.”

Grace snorted. “No, you won’t. That’s got to be a second-year spell.”

“No, I _will_ ,” James said, and puffed out his chest. He pulled a wooden case from the depths of the bag, and opened it, showcasing his wand. “Ollivander said my wand is good for Transfiguration, so I’ll be able to transfigure _anything_.”

“Can I touch it?”

James took the wand out and handed it to Grace. She took it from him gently. It was a light brown, and there was a floral design at the hilt. She gave it a little swish, but nothing happened. She tossed the wand back to James, and settled back against the bedrest, feeling lightheaded again.

“Does it have dragon in it?”

“Yes! It’s got dragon heartstring. Ollivander said that means my wand’s got a lot of power—like a dragon.”

“Wicked,” she said, tone flat.

“Do you want to see Goldie?” James said, reaching for the last bag.

It was full of what Grace assumed were James’s course books. Among them were some haphazardly thrown photographs. James pulled one out at random, and showed Grace. It was of a medium-sized tawny owl atop a perch in Eeylops. The owl’s streaks were a light brown, but Grace supposed that in just the right light they might have looked gold. Goldie was squawking at whomever was taking the photograph, ruffling his feathers threateningly.

“You named him _Goldie_?” Grace handed the photograph back. From her periphery, she saw her parents coming back into the ward with Healer Kane, a tall woman in light green robes

“Of course I did,” James said proudly. “You should’ve seen him when I came into the shop, Grace! The clerk said he was the most rambunctious owl he’d ever had, but Dad said he was just colorful like me.”

Grace was no longer looking at James. Her sights were occupied by the trio making their way to her hospital bed. Her mother was talking rapidly to Healer Kane, who was becoming increasingly confused, while her father looked completely torn. When they were just a couple beds down from Grace, she heard what they were saying:

“I’m only asking for your professional opinion, of course,” Mum said. “Tutors are always an option. I hear they’re very popular these days. There are always fliers for them posted all over Diagon Alley—you know, the ones with the singing textbook—”

“—and then Goldie _nipped_ at my finger, and I knew he must’ve liked me—”

“These are excellent points, dear,” Dad interjected hurriedly as they neared. “But—but do you really think Grace would be okay with that? She’s had her sights set on Hogwarts for so long.”

“What?” Grace murmured to herself. Were they talking about her? Getting her a tutor? But she hadn’t even begun—

“We’ve got to consider the facts at hand, Monty—”

“—so the clerk took Goldie out of the cage, but then he _bolted_ —”

“—I simply don’t think it’s a good idea for Grace to be so far away from us and for so long with her condition.”

“No!” Grace burst. Her parents and Healer Kane looked at her. James’s voice faltered and then quieted. “You can’t do that! I—I’ve _got_ to go to Hogwarts. I’ve wanted to go for _so long_ —”

“Grace,” Mum said soothingly, coming forward. “I know you want to, darling. But your health has been wavering recently—”

“It hasn’t!” Grace cried out desperately. Her heart twisted uncomfortably, and tears were building up in her eyes, although Grace wasn’t exactly sad. She was angry. “It hasn’t been _wavering_. It’s always been the bloody _same_ —”

“Grace!” Mum scolded. “We’ll talk about this later—”

“I don’t want to talk about it later!” Grace rubbed at her eyes. “This is the first time I’ve had an episode in nearly three months. And—and didn’t that one Healer say my paroxysm would calm once I get a wand? Because of the taming principle or something?”

Her mother and father exchanged looks, and Grace felt her heart sink. Her mind was in a frenzy. She couldn’t even fathom _not_ going to Hogwarts. It had been her dream for so long—living without her parents, growing as an individual, learning to function without someone hovering over her shoulder every five minutes. Hogwarts was the place she could finally be free. Her parents couldn’t just take that away from her.

“That is true,” Healer Kane spoke at last. She approached Grace, and pulled her wand from the depths of her robes, tapping it against Grace’s left temple. A bluish haze emanated from the end. “Have you been given a Pepper-Up yet, Grace?”

“No.”

Healer Kane twisted towards Grace’s parents. “Could one of you ask one of the trainees to fetch a Pepper-Up?”

Dad nodded, and hastened off.

Kane withdrew her wand and pocketed it in her lime green robe. “There’s been a lot of magical activity clouding around your temporal lobes, and there’s still latent energy in the background. Have you been trying to fight it off, Grace?”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It will only make it worse. If you want to lessen the severity of the paroxysm, you can’t fight it off. You’ve got to just let it happen. I know it’s difficult, but otherwise it’ll just be more drawn out and painful.”

“But when I do try to fight it off, it doesn’t happen as much.”

“You’re paying a large sum for something so little, Grace.”

“But isn’t that better?”

Healer Kane sighed. “Not exactly. When you try to keep an episode at bay, you’re inadvertently gaining a kind of tolerance—you’re building up strength. As a result, the magical strain simply builds and builds. And when your body can’t handle it anymore, it’ll come flooding out, and a _lot_ will flood out.”

“But—but—” Grace’s voice was softer than a feather, “I’m supposed to go to Hogwarts.”

Grace’s father slipped back inside the ward, hands gripping a vial of Pepper-Up Potion, which he handed to Healer Kane. Healer Kane twisted the cap off and gave it to Grace, but Grace only stared solemnly at it. She didn’t want to be pepper-upped unless she knew for certain that she would be allowed to attend Hogwarts.

“Grace,” Mum said tiredly. “I told you: we’ll discuss this later, when you’re feeling more up to it.”

“Well, Mrs. Potter,” Healer Kane cleared her throat, “you did ask for my professional opinion. I don’t see the need to pull Grace from Hogwarts. It’s simply the difference of Grace suffering under magical strain at home or at Hogwarts, and I would say it might as well be Hogwarts. At least there she’ll be practicing channeling her magic; it would further the waning process.”

“But—what if she has an episode?” Euphemia said with worry. “She’ll be so far, and without us—”

“I happen to know the Hogwarts matron very well,” Healer Kane said kindly, “and she’s the very best at her job—better than some Healers here, I daresay. Grace would be in good hands at Hogwarts. In fact, I would suggest making an appointment with the Headmaster about special accommodations—perhaps weekly check-ins with the matron, Healer on call, monitoring magical build-up.”

Dad’s brows raised. “That’s certainly an idea.”

But Mum still wasn’t convinced. With pursed lips, she asked, “Couldn’t it very well be the opposite? Too much magical exposure could send her into a frenzy.”

“I think it would be fairly accurate to say Grace has spent far more time than normal in St. Mungo’s,” Healer Kane said. “She comes by here weekly, and occasionally stays for a period of two to three days for monitoring at any given time. She’s never gone into a frenzy based on the magical exposure here, and it would be remiss of me to think Hogwarts has _more_ magical energy than St. Mungo’s.”

“Alright…” Mum said, mulling it over. She glanced at her husband. “I suppose we ought to set up an appointment with the Headmaster.”

“And if he says yes to accommodations, you’ll let me go to Hogwarts?” Grace said.

“We’ll see,” was all Mum said. But, behind her, Dad nodded, and Grace felt a little more at ease.

She tipped the contents of the vial into her open mouth. She could work with a ‘we’ll see’ and a hidden nod from her father. She had gotten more out of less. One way or another, Grace Potter would find her way to Hogwarts.


	2. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace meets the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and then she meets her brother's best friend.

The Headmaster’s office was much larger than Grace expected. The walls were made of stone, and were decorated with the portraits of past Headmasters, all of whom seemed to be sleeping within their frames. Although, if Grace turned away and peered slyly from the corner of her eye, she saw some of their eyes flicker open.

“Hello, Mr. Potter, Mrs. Potter,” Albus Dumbledore greeted from behind his desk, which held stacks of ancient books and spindly, silvery instruments Grace had never seen before. He smiled kindly at Grace. “And how are you, Miss Potter?”

“I’m fine,” she said as her parents shook hands with the old wizard.

Dumbledore conjured an extra chair in between the two that were already in front of his desk. Grace sat in it wordlessly, and her parents settled in on either side of her.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Headmaster,” Mum began. “I’m sure you have rather a busy schedule.”

“I am never too busy to meet with a student,” Dumbledore responded, and Grace’s heart leapt at the word ‘student.’ “Hogwarts is, of course, prepared to offer any special accommodation Miss Potter may require.”

“Grace’s Healer—Aisha Kane—said she would send you a letter outlining what accommodations Grace might require. Have you received it?” Mum asked.

“Yes, I have,” Dumbledore said, and pulled the letter out from one of the drawers of his desk. He looked at Grace, and his blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. “A curious case, if I may say so myself. If I recall correctly, only three cases of paroxysm via magical strain have been recorded in the past century.”

Grace blinked at him, shifting awkwardly in the large chair. She hadn’t known that. She knew her condition was rare, but not _that_ rare.

“Hogwarts is, of course, more than willing to accommodate you,” the Headmaster continued. “Madam Pomfrey, our resident Healer, will briefly check your level of strain once every week in the Hospital Wing. If an episode is imminent—” Dumbledore peered at the letter, “—Healer Kane suggested you remain in the Hospital Wing for monitoring for three to five days—depending on the severity of the paroxysm. Depending on how often this occurs, you will, of course, be missing a large chunk of classes—”

“I’ll catch up!” Grace blurted out before she could stop herself. She couldn’t have the Headmaster of Hogwarts suddenly start counting cons against her, not when she was so close. “I’ll get notes and homework from other students. I’ll stay late in the library to finish the extra work. I—I’ll visit professors after class—”

Dumbledore smiled gently. “I have no doubt in my mind that you will rise to the challenge, Miss Potter. My suggestion, however, was not for you to work yourself to the bone, but rather to assign you a tutor who could help bridge the gap between classes when you are otherwise confined in the Hospital Wing.”

Grace felt her cheeks burn slightly. “Oh. Right.”

Mum nodded her approval.

“It would be simplest if the tutor were in the year above yours—namely, a second-year tutoring a first-year. After all, who knows first-year material better than a second-year who just finished it? Final exams haven’t commenced yet, so I currently do not know who ranks the highest in our current batch of first-years. I shall leave the assignment to our Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, as she would know best the temperament and aptitude of our first-years.”

“D—do you have to tell them everything?” Grace asked, suddenly feeling very small. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted everyone at Hogwarts to know of her condition. Would they look down on her? Would they pity her? “About my paroxysm and everything?”

“What would you rather?” Dumbledore asked.

“Could we just…keep my condition private? At least for now? Please?”

“It would be better if there wasn’t a big fuss made out of it,” Dad supported.

“Of course,” Dumbledore nodded. He clapped his hands together lightly. “I believe that takes care of that, then. Any questions?”

“You will notify us, won’t you?” Mum said worriedly. “If Grace has an episode?”

“I will have Madam Pomfrey keep you up-to-date with each of Grace’s check-ups. You will, of course, be allowed to remain in the Hospital Wing should Grace find herself there.”

“What about Healer Kane?” Mum pressed on. “Shouldn’t she drop by ever so often? They’ve got a file on Grace, you see—”

“Effie, I’m sure the matron here can relay everything to Healer Kane,” Dad said softly.

“Yes—yes, I suppose that works,” Mum said.

“Have you got any questions, Grace?” Dad asked, looking to her.

There was only one question Grace wanted to know the answer to. It burned fiercely within in: “So, can I go to Hogwarts?”

“I don’t see a problem,” Dad announced. “I’m more than happy with the accommodations Healer Kane has suggested. And I’m sure Hogwarts will uphold them accordingly. Effie?”

“Well…I suppose there’s no reason not to.” Mum glanced down worriedly at Grace. “But, if it does get too much to handle, if your rate of paroxysms spike or they get worse…we’ll have to revisit the issue.”

Grace didn’t care about revisiting the issue. She only cared about what was happening right here, right now. “But I can go now, right? I can go?”

“Yes, Grace.” Mum smiled faintly. “You can go to Hogwarts.”

Grace sighed in relief. Dumbledore opened a drawer in his desk and rummaged around in it before pulling out a thick, yellowed envelope riddled with green ink.

“I suppose that now we have formally handled the situation of your enrollment into Hogwarts, I might as well give you this,” he said, handing Grace her Hogwarts acceptance letter.

Wide-eyed, Grace took it from Dumbledore’s thin hands. “Thank you,” she breathed, staring at the neat cursive that spelled her name.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss Potter,” he said.

She grinned.

“Thank you, Professor,” Dad said, rising. “Shall we go collect James now?”

“Yes—” Dumbledore glanced down at his watch, “—all students ought to be back in their common rooms by now, getting ready to board the train tomorrow. He should be in the Gryffindor tower. I trust you remember the way?”

“Oh, it’s like I only left yesterday.” Dad glanced at Mum and winked.

“After you’ve collected the young Mr. Potter, you’re welcome to use the Floo in the teachers’ common area. I’m afraid I must depart now for a meeting at the Ministry.” Dumbledore smiled once more. “It was nice meeting you all. I’ll see you next year, Miss Potter.”

“Goodbye,” she said, and her parents followed suit before leading Grace down the spiral staircase and out of the Headmaster’s office.

They emerged from the stairwell into a great hallway with large stone pillars and hundreds more portraits. There were medieval chandeliers with candles stuck into the holders, bathing the whole of the walkway in a wonderful warm glow.

“Couldn’t James have just come on the train for Easter?” Grace asked, following her parents to the Northern tower.

She was torn between ripping open her envelope and looking at the building. She settled on sightseeing. Several curious portraits followed the trio as they made their way up, and Grace waved at a couple of them. Some shrieked in surprised, others waved back gleefully.

“It’s much easier if we pick him up now,” Mum said. She wrinkled her nose. “King’s Cross is always so _crowded_. Merlin knows they ought to make the platform wider.”

“Ah, here we are,” Dad said proudly, brandishing at a portrait of a large woman eating some grapes. “This is the entrance to Gryffindor. I don’t think we’ll be allowed inside, but you’ll see it all next year.”

“You two aren’t students,” the woman in the portrait said suspiciously, glancing between the two adults.

“Er—no—we’re here to pick up our son, James. James Potter?”

“Oh, _that_ one,” the portrait said crossly. “He deserves a good scolding, that boy. He bribed one of the knights to steal my bowl of fruit!”

Mum’s face darkened while Grace laughed.

“Oh—well—we apologize on his behalf,” Dad said slowly. “I’m sure it was all in good earnest.”

The portrait harrumphed, and turned away.

“We did owl him to meet us here, didn’t we?” Mum asked after a moment.

Dad checked his watch, and just as he did, the portrait swung open, and James hopped out. He was tugging along a trunk, which was ridiculous, because James had more than enough things at home to wear for Easter holiday. Helping him was another Gryffindor student. He was taller than James, with a head of wavy dark hair, olive skin, and bright grey eyes.

“Merlin’s beard—” James grumbled, “—what’d you put in here? Rocks?”

“Yes, James, I decided to bring my rock collection. You know the holiday isn't complete without it,” the boy responded sarcastically.

“Erm—James?” Dad called out hesitantly.

James dropped his end of the trunk, and looked up. He grinned. “Hullo Dad, Mum! _Grassie_ —”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, but her voice contained none of the usual bite.

“—so, a bit of a change of plans,” James continued effortlessly. “I was wondering if my friend could stay over for holiday?” He gestured at the boy besides him.

“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” the boy said, bowing lowly. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Sirius Black.”

Dad stared at him bemusedly.

Mum frowned. “James, you should have written us! And what’s this I hear about stealing the Fat Lady’s fruit bowl—”

“Mum, that wasn’t me! That woman’s got it out for me—”

“And why in Merlin’s name would she have it out for you?” Mum demanded. “You’d best tell me the truth, James Fleamont Potter—”

Sirius Black snorted.

“Perhaps we should discuss this later,” Dad interjected. He glanced down at Grace worriedly. “Grace, would it be all right with you if James’s friend stayed over for the holiday?”

James looked at Grace eagerly. Grace rotated her Hogwarts letter in her hand.

“Sure,” she said easily. If it had been a different day, she might have been more testy about it. But Grace had just received her Hogwarts letter. The world was bright and the possibilities for next year were endless. What did it matter if Sirius Black—whoever he was—came over? Nothing could knock this good mood out of Grace.

“Alright then,” Dad said. He waved his wand, and Sirius’s trunk shrunk. “Shall we get a move on?”

* * *

Grace would never in a million years admit it, but she was just a teensy bit jealous of Sirius Black. He was stitched so tightly to James’s side he might as well have been James’s shadow! He was constantly around James—during breakfast, lunch, dinner, and all moments in between.

James hadn’t spoken to Grace alone since he and Sirius had arrived back at Potter cottage for the holiday. During Christmas holiday, James had slept in Grace’s room nearly every night, recounting with astonishing detail every single one of his escapades at Hogwarts. But now he was holed up in his own room with Sirius Black.

 _You’d think they would have had enough of each other seeing as they’ve shared the same dormitory for the past seven months_ , Grace thought scathingly, watching the duo toss a Quaffle back and forth.

Grace had been given another set of books for her birthday back in January. Sat against her usual position by the hornbeam, Grace was currently pretending to read  _The Sorceress and the Snallygaster_. She held the book close to her head, peering just over the top of it to watch Sirius protect his goal—Mum’s garden of fluxweed—from James, who had the Quaffle. Sirius was hovering midair on the same model Cleansweep James had; apparently, he had shrunk and smuggled it into Hogwarts in the very beginning of the school year, which Grace had very grudgingly admitted was quite impressive.

James lobbed the Quaffle. Sirius shot forward and caught it, proceeding to dash about the backyard. James rushed at Sirius, cutting across the length of the yard diagonally to catch Sirius just as he turned another corner. Grace lowered her book, astounded as James swung underneath Sirius, whacking the end of his broomstick against him.

“Hey!” Sirius cried out. And when he turned to swat away James’s broomstick, James appeared from the other side, swooping the Quaffle from Sirius’s loose grip.

Laughing his head off, James whizzed back to Sirius’s unguarded goal, and gently tossed the Quaffle into the crop of fluxweed. Both Sirius and Grace stared at James, dumbstruck.

“Where’d you learn that?” Sirius demanded.

James shrugged, touching down on the ground. He wore a wide grin. “I dunno—I just figured the best way to get the Quaffle from you would be to distract you.”

“Distraction? That was borderline abuse!” Sirius said, settling down on the ground as well. He threw his broomstick on the ground, and very dramatically clutched at the side of his stomach, where James’s broom had whacked into him. “You’d best pay my hospital bills, Potter.”

James rolled his eyes, and started to the house. “You can damn well pay your own hospital bills, Black.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Thirsty,” James said easily. He gestured to Sirius. “C’mon.”

Sirius made a very big show of taking a step forward, wincing, and then collapsing onto the dirt. “James—James…it hurts too much. No one ever told me your broom was made of _steel_ —”

“Oh, sod off—”

“Bring me back an exploding lemonade,” Sirius called out to James’s receding form. When James disappeared behind the backdoor, Sirius spread out on the lawn and looked to Grace, who was still hiding behind her book. “Think he’ll actually get me an exploding lemonade?”

She didn’t say anything. Sirius ought to know by now that James would get him _anything_. James would probably bend over and offer his backside to Sirius as a footrest if the latter asked.

“Do you even have exploding lemonade?”

She shrugged. Probably not, but what they didn’t have Dotty could get. Besides, James would likely go to the ends of the earth for Sirius’s blasted exploding lemonade.

“You don’t talk an awful lot, do you?”

“I don’t talk to prats,” she said.

He laughed. “And I was beginning to think you didn’t have a sense of humor, what with all your—” he waved halfheartedly at her book, “—reading.”

“Some books are funny. You’d know that if you’d ever opened one in your life.”

“Merlin’s beard—do you just store up on these, waiting for the right moment?”

“True wit doesn’t need to be stored. You don’t have any, so you wouldn’t know.”

Sirius turned away, spread-eagled on the ground. “I’m being insulted by a ten-year-old. This is the strangest holiday I’ve ever had.”

“I’m _eleven_ ,” Grace snapped.

“Eleven? But I thought you were born a year after James?”

“He’s only ten months older than me. It’s not an exact year.”

“Huh,” Sirius said. “Imagine that.”

“You don’t have to imagine it; that’s how it is.”

“How come you don’t like flying?” Sirius asked, changing gears. He looked to her again, dark hair splayed across his face. Grace privately wondered if he didn’t possess the necessary attention span to focus on one topic at a time.

She pursed her lips. “I do like flying.”

“But you’re not playing with us?”

“Just because I’m not doing something with you and James doesn’t mean I don’t like it.” Grace returned to her book, irate.

“No,” Sirius agreed. “It’s just me you don’t like, then?”

Grace’s eyes snapped to his. Perhaps he was more observant than he let on.

“Come on.” Sirius got up and picked his own broom and James’s. He tossed James’s to Grace; it thudded dully in front of her. “One game. I promise you’ll like me by the end of it.”

She doubted it.

“Everyone likes me in the end,” Sirius said, and smiled widely. The white of his teeth just barely peeked through. He nodded to the broomstick in front of Grace. “Come on.”

But Grace was not allowed to ride James’s broomstick, or any broomstick for that matter. She shook her head, and brought her book back up to her face.

“Oh—what is it? Are you afraid?” Sirius’s voice was loud and abrasive and thoroughly obnoxious. Grace’s grip on her book grew tighter. “Afraid I’ll beat you? Perhaps you don’t want to play with us, because you’re afraid you’re not good enough—”

Rage cut through Grace like a white-hot knife. She threw down her book, and stalked to James’s broomstick.

“Up!” she barked, and the broom flew into her hand faster than a swallow. The speed of it made her hand hurt when it collided, but she didn’t even wince. She stared down Sirius Black like she was Morgana and he was a frog she was going to boil alive very, _very_ slowly. “Whoever scores into the fluxweed patch first is the better player.”

“Alright,” Sirius said breezily, sliding onto his broomstick. He grabbed the Quaffle and waited for Grace to join him in the center of the lawn. “Three…two…one!”

Sirius threw the ball up in the air, eyes trailing after its arc. Grace was still watching Sirius. After about half a second, Sirius moved forward to catch the ball as it completed its arc. Grace zoomed forward, but not to catch the ball.

Just as Sirius was within arm’s reach of the Quaffle, Grace rammed into his side, sending him flying away from the ball. The collision had Sirius spiraling away from the fluxweed patch. Grace rushed forward, and hit the Quaffle into the small garden. The scarlet ball dug deep into the soil, ruining and upturning some of the fluxweed.

“ _Grace_!” James’s furious voice called out. He stalked towards Grace, a bottle of ice-cold exploding lemonade in his right hand.

The fury that had lit every fiber of Grace’s being extinguished like a candle thrust into water. She dropped to the ground immediately, and dropped James’s broom like it was made of fire.

“Sorry— _please_ don’t tell Mum—”

“It’s fine, James,” Sirius said, picking himself up and running toward the duo. “We were just playing. It’s not like she broke anything—”

“I _am_ going to tell Mum!” James said, and he swallowed thickly. “You _know_ you’re not supposed to. Remember what happened last time—”

“He _goaded_ me—”

“That’s true,” Sirius admitted. “Besides, people ram into people all the time in Quidditch. It really doesn’t matter. She’s tiny—it didn’t hurt—”

“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?” James asked, twisting to Sirius.

“Er—” Sirius’s grey eyes glanced between James and Grace, “—what are _you_ talking about…?”

“Grace isn’t allowed on broomsticks!” James’s glare returned to Grace, and she matched it with equal strength.

“It was _barely_ five minutes—”

“That’s what you said last time!”

“Why exactly isn’t she allowed on broomsticks?” Sirius interjected.

“She gets sick a lot, you see—” James began.

“I fall off brooms a lot, you see—” Grace said at nearly the exact same time.

They both stopped speaking, and glared at each other.

“She gets sick a lot,” James began again, “so she falls a lot. Off of the brooms. Because she’s sick. A lot.”

“ _Riiight_.” Sirius scratched the back of his head. “Well—your sister was right, James. I _was_ goading her, so it’s not entirely her fault. Besides, she didn’t fall off this time. So I reckon it’s fine, yeah?”

James and Grace stared stonily at each. James’s lips were pressed into a thin line, and Grace’s were twisted into a scowl.

After a moment, James’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah—okay—it’s fine.”

Grace spit on her hand and reached out to James. He spit in his own rather dejectedly and shook her hand.

“You two are bloody disgusting,” Sirius said lightheartedly. “Anyway, is that mine?” He pointed to the bottle of exploding lemonade.

“What?” James said, glancing at his hand. “Oh, right—here.”

James tossed it to Sirius and bent down to pick up his broom, turning away from Sirius. Behind James, Sirius mouthed ‘ _watch this_ ’ to Grace and began shaking the bottle. Grace’s eyes widened a fraction, and her lips curved into a smile.

“Oh, James!” Sirius trilled.

“What?” James said, turning back to Sirius.

“Catch!” Sirius said, lobbing the exploding lemonade—which was bound to burst any second now—towards James. “Run, Grace! Run!”

James dropped his broom, and caught the bottle expertly. Grace dug her feet into the dirt, and raced forward. James stared at Sirius bemusedly.

“What—?”

The cap twisted off the bottle by itself, and a stream of lemonade burst from the top, showering James. He spluttered against the onslaught, dropped the bottle, and raised his arms over his face in an effort to protect himself from the onslaught.

Ten paces beyond, Sirius Black was laughing like mad, and Grace was laughing with him.

* * *

Someone was knocking on Grace’s door, which was highly unusual. Grace was snuggled up in the very corner of her bed, with a _Spot the Snargaluff!_ puzzle book. She had a quill in her mouth, an ink pot balanced precariously amongst a mound of pillows, and a finger tracing over the crammed picture that the snargaluff was surely hidden in. She was simply _too_ comfortable to get up and see who was knocking.

The knocking came again. “I know you’re up,” Sirius’s loud voice filtered through the crack in the door. “Your light’s on.”

Grace took the quill out of her mouth. “You can come in.”

Sirius Black poked his head in through the door. His hair was messy and bedraggled. He grinned at her. “Hullo.”

Grace stared at him for a moment, unimpressed. “Hi.”

Sirius entered fully, and closed the door behind him. His grey eyes scanned over the entirety of Grace’s room, taking in the stunted bookshelf, pile of assorted knick-knacks strung haphazardly across the floor, and the many band posters that adorned her walls. He nodded appreciatively at The Hobgoblins poster that was stuck above her bed.

“Your room’s much bigger than James’s,” Sirius commented.

“I guess,” Grace said, eyes returning to the picture. She squinted down at the image of nearly a hundred wizards crammed into a bar. “What do you want?”

“James is out like a light, and I’m really thirsty.” Sirius let out a weak cough. “I dunno where anything is, and I saw your light, so I was wondering…?”

“Oh, alright,” Grace sighed, and threw down her puzzle book.

Sirius craned his neck to get a look at it. “Spot the Snargaluff?”

“Yeah,” Grace said, untangling herself from her blanket while trying to avoid hitting the inkpot.

“Aren’t those really boring?” Sirius said as Grace got out of bed. He followed her out of her room. “My brother has one, and he did one the day he got it and never opened the book ever again.”

“It is boring,” Grace agreed, leading Sirius down the stairs and into the kitchen “But that’s why I do them, so I can tire myself out and go to sleep.”

“You have trouble sleeping?”

Grace shrugged. “I guess.” She got a glass out of the cupboard above the sink and filled it with water before handing it to Sirius. “You’ve got a brother?”

Grace honestly couldn’t imagine two Sirius Blacks running around. She thought it might be too much for the universe to handle.

Sirius took a great big gulp before answering. “Yeah—” he said, nearly choking on the water, “—he’s the same year as you. His name’s Regulus.”

“Oh,” Grace said. She sat herself at the dining table, and lifted the burnished silver lid off the cake plate, revealing a mound of strawberry pastries. She took one for herself and offered another to Sirius, who took it eagerly. “Do you think he’ll be in Gryffindor, like you?”

Sirius snorted loudly. “Yeah, right. Ickle Reggie-kins? Once, he saw my mother kill a spider and he cried. I think Hufflepuff’s the place for him.”

Sirius set down his glass of water on the table and sat across from Grace. He ate his pastry whole. He chewed it quickly, drank some water, and then swallowed it down. Grace wrinkled her nose as she nibbled her own pastry.

“James thinks I’ll be in Hufflepuff, too,” Grace said.

Her mum thought it, too, although she’d never say it. Grace supposed it had something to do with the fact that she never seemed to step out of her boundaries. Grace was always in her room or under the hornbeam tree reading or bugging James to play with her. Grace was never attempting silly dives from a broomstick or playing with spells or planning pranks to play on her father like James usually did. But this wasn’t because Grace was soft-hearted; it was because she had never been given the _chance_. For as long as she could remember, Grace was the little one, the protected one, the weak one for whom others had to stay strong.

Grace didn’t want to be in Hufflepuff. She didn’t want to be soft and shy and sweet. She wanted to be strong.

“No way,” Sirius said loudly, shaking Grace from her reverie. “You? In Hufflepuff? I’ll eat my left shoe if that happens. It’s Gryffindor for you and nothing else.”

A small smile worked its way onto her face. “You really think so?”

“You _tackled_ me earlier just so you could get your hands on the Quaffle—so yeah, I’m pretty sure.” Sirius reached over and picked another pastry. “These are good.”

“Yeah,” Grace agreed. “James and I love them. Dotty always leaves an extra batch after dinner in case we’re feeling peckish.”

“Your house-elf is nice. I wish mine was like that; he’s always muttering things under his breath, and he smells _foul_.” He pretended to gag, and Grace laughed.

“I’m sorry I tackled into you earlier,” Grace said after a moment. “I was just mad.”

Sirius shrugged. “It’s okay. I was more surprised than anything. I mean—honestly?—I kind of thought you’d be one of those prissy, prim types. That’s how my cousins act at least.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “And, honestly, I kind of thought you’d be one of those arrogant, annoying types—oh wait, you are.” Sirius threw a bit of strawberry pastry at her, and Grace batted it out of the way. “I’m kidding! You’re actually pretty cool. I’m glad you and James are friends.”

“Thanks,” he said, and a slow, sly smile grew across his face.

“What?” Grace said suspiciously.

“I told you,” he sang. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I told you you’d like me; everyone does, in the end.” Sirius winked at her; or, rather, he _tried_ to wink at her. He ended up with a staggered blink.

Grace snorted. “Yeah—it must be your charm,” she said very sarcastically.

“That’s what I think, too!”

* * *

The last day of James and Sirius’s Easter holidays was the same day as Grace’s weekly checkup at St. Mungo’s. She and Mum left early in the morning, before either James or Sirius woke up. Grace’s last paroxysm had been nearly a month ago, so she wasn’t at risk of another episode for a while. Nonetheless, Healer Kane suggested Grace get her wand sometime soon. Getting acquainted with her wand several months before starting Hogwarts would hopefully help Grace channel her magical energy and lessen the risk of paroxysm. Grace’s mother was, of course, all for this, so the very moment James and Sirius woke up she whisked everyone off to Diagon Alley.

“But _Mum_ ,” James whined as the family (and Sirius Black) crossed Quidditch Quality Supplies, “they _just_ got the latest Nimbus! And I _need_ the newest model to practice, so I can try out with it for the Gryffindor team next year!”

“James, by this summer, they will have come out with an even _newer_ model, and you’ll be begging me for _that one_ —”

“No, the next Nimbus isn’t slated for public release until spring of next year!”

“Well then you’ll ask me for it spring of next year, so we might as well wait.”

“Of course I’ll ask for it, but I need _this_ model till then—”

“Don’t students usually go Hogwarts shopping during the summer?” Sirius whispered to Grace. He had long finished the fudge sundae Grace’s father had bought, but was still licking the spoon.

“Mum and I felt like going now. Besides, we’re only getting my wand, so we won’t be here long.”

“I see,” Sirius nodded sagely. “You’re planning to practice.”

“Er—yes?”

“Smart. It’s best to get a handle on the latest hexes before you use them. You have no idea how many students cast stinging jinxes for the first time in duels.” Sirius shook his head sadly. “It only tickles.”

Grace stared at him. “You—you _duel_?”

Sirius shrugged. “Duel, fight, prank, retaliate—it’s all the same, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you get in trouble for that?”

“Of course I do—how else would I be tied with James for the most number of detentions a first-year has ever had?”

Grace’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. She swiveled to Dad and Mum, but they were both listening bemusedly as James continued to list all the reasons why he ought to have the latest Nimbus right this second. How had they both completely missed this? How had James hidden this so well?

“How many detentions have you gotten?” Grace asked slowly.

“Oh, it’s somewhere between eighty-four and eighty-six.” Sirius frowned. “Remus—he’s another friend of ours—wasn’t keeping track properly.”

“ _Eighty-four_ —” Grace wheezed.

“It’s likely eighty-six,” Sirius said. “We got a detention the day before we left for holiday with you lot, but it just hasn’t been served yet.”

“ _Eighty-six_ —”

“Oh, great, we’re here,” Sirius said, huffing as the group rounded on Ollivander’s. “I despised getting my wand. Ollivander is so…” Sirius gestured uselessly, “you know.”

Grace’s mind was still reeling from the revelation that her brother had served somewhere between eighty-four and eighty-six detentions in Hogwarts, the most any first-year had ever racked up. Merlin’s socks—this was _excellent_ blackmailing material to use against James. Grace tore her eyes away from Sirius, resolving to learn more about their eighty-four to eighty-six detentions later, and looked at the dusty display of wands in the shop window.  

There were two rows of intricately carved wands, the colors ranging from a washed out oak to a dark, burnished willow. Some were large and others were small, and there were a few with designs and runes carved into the handle. None of these wands, however, matched the dazzle of the wand in the very center. Secured carefully in its own case was a silver wand with rings etched into the lower handle. It seemed to shine in the dim light of the old wand shop, and Grace felt as if that wand belonged in her hand.

Her head began to spin a little—usually a tell-tale sign of an upcoming episode of paroxysm—but none of the nausea accompanied it. She felt clear-headed and airy and light as a feather; she felt like maybe that silver wand, despite its distance, was supposed to be hers.

“Are you just going to stand there or what?” James called out. He was at the threshold of the shop door, while Mum, Dad, and Sirius were already inside. There was a tiny frown playing at his lips, and Grace knew Mum and Dad had decided not to get James the new Nimbus.

Grace rushed into the decrepit store. Her parents were already being met by Mr. Ollivander, a very old man with large, silvery eyes. Sirius was hiding behind a stack of wand boxes that nearly reached his head.

“Ah—Euphemia, Fleamont, what a pleasure!” Ollivander said happily.

“Garrick!” Dad enveloped him in a hug. “How’s the old hunt for snakewood? Any luck?”

Ollivander sighed as they parted. “I’m afraid Gregorovitch has already beaten me to that one. He seems to have mysteriously stumbled upon an entire grove—the whereabouts of which are entirely unknown to me!”

Grace’s father clucked his tongue sympathetically and clapped Ollivander on the back. “Ah, well, better luck next time, friend.”

Ollivander hummed in agreement and turned his eyes onto James. “The young Mr. Potter—how has your wand been faring? Eleven inches, mahogany, pliable, yes?”

James nodded stiffly, inching towards Sirius. “It’s really good. I’ve been doing well in Transfiguration, like you said.”

Ollivander smiled and turned to Grace. He raised a brow. “Grace Potter?”

Grace nodded eagerly. “I’m here for my wand.”

Ollivander chuckled. “An enthusiastic one! Well, step forward—raise up your wand hand.”

Grace lifted her right arm automatically and watched curiously as Ollivander charmed a tape measure to roll itself around her wrist. As soon as he finished his measurements, he turned his back on her and walked toward the very back of his shop, pulling out nearly a dozen boxes and heaving them toward her. He laid them across the register and pulled out the first—a sleek, deep burgundy wand with flower patterns near the top.

“Dyed cherry wood,” Ollivander said, handing her the wand, “nine and three quarters inches, dragon heartstring. Why don’t you give it a wave?”

Grace took the wand in her right hand and immediately felt a headache unfold in her temples. She gritted her teeth and slashed the wand through the air. A thunderous roar erupted from the wand, and before she knew it, Ollivander had snatched it out of her hand.

“No, no,” he muttered, pulling out another wand. “Ahah! Apple, ten inches, unicorn hair! Light and supple.”

Grace took this one, and felt the same lurch in her head she had felt with the previous. Before she could so much as wave this one, Ollivander had picked it out of her hand as well, throwing it back into its box.

This ritual continued for about ten or eleven more wands, and Grace began to wonder if they would ever find her wand.

“This is taking forever,” she heard James whine to their mother. “We could’ve gone to Quality Quidditch—”

“If you bring that up one more time James, I promise you you’ll not get the Nimbus coming out next spring, either,” Dad said calmly.

“Is something the matter?” Mum asked after yet another wand failed in Grace’s hands.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Ollivander said, rummaging through another pile of wands. “Simply a tricky customer is all.”

Grace pursed her lips and let her eyes wander around the store. Ollivander must have had nearly a thousand wands in his shop. Would she have to try every single one of them? Her eyes traveled back toward the display window, and she caught a glimpse of the silver wand’s reflection in the glass.

“Mr. Ollivander?” Grace said, eyes still on the display window. “Could I try that silver wand on display?”

“What?” Ollivander said, swiveling around with seven boxes cradled in his arms. “Which wand?”

“The silver one,” Grace repeated, pointing to the display.

Ollivander smiled indulgently as he put down the boxes. “Ah—the silver lime wand. Very pretty, no?”

Grace frowned, and she was about to open her mouth and tell him that she didn’t want it _just_ because it was pretty, but he had turned his back on her before she could. Ollivander meandered over to the display and picked out the silver lime wand with thin, nimble fingers.

“No harm in giving it a try, eh?” he said, turning back and handing it to her.

Grace felt a warmth erupt in her chest as soon as her fingers curled around the ringed handle. She felt the tension in her head ease away until all that was left was a dim, aching pulse. She gave the wand a swish, and a warm breeze swept through the shop.

“Imagine that,” Ollivander said, staring at the grip Grace had on the silver lime wand. “This wand has been unclaimed for nearly three hundred years. I never thought I would see the day it would finally be sold.”

“Don’t need to imagine it,” Sirius said loudly from the back of the shop. “It’s happened.”

Grace felt a grin ease its way onto her face. She looked up at Ollivander, wand hand outstretched. “This is it, right? My wand?”

“Well, yes—”

“What’s the core?” Grace asked eagerly. “And the length? And what does silver lime mean?”

“Phoenix feather,” Ollivander answered easily after a moment. “Eleven and a half inches. _Extremely_ flexible wand—highly suitable for dueling. Silver lime used to have a reputation for clairvoyance, but that fad has long passed.”

“ _Clairvoyance_ ,” Grace breathed. Her heart was full to bursting. She beamed and whirled around to James with a smug look on her face. “Hear that, James? I’m going to do dueling and take Divination and I’m going to be _great_ —”

James scoffed. “Only prats take Divination. It’s a joke of a class.”

“No, it’s _not_ —”

“Yes, it _is_ —”

“Mum!” Grace said shrilly. “Tell James he’s wrong.”

“Tell Grace _she’s_ wrong,” James responded coolly.

“ _Enough_ ,” their mother hissed under her breath. “James, Grace—apologize to each other _now_. And then thank Mr. Ollivander for your wand, Grace. No—don’t you dare interrupt me, James Fleamont Potter. You can stop to look inside Quality Quidditch for five minutes, but we will _not_ be buying anything.”

Grace thanked Ollivander, Dad paid for the wand, and when James went into Quality Quidditch Supplies, Mum relented into letting James get the broomstick he wanted. Grace didn’t mind in the slightest, though. The whole while, she held onto her new silver lime wand like it was the most precious thing she had ever owned, because it was. No broomstick or owl could ever compete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed this! i've always wanted to do a kind of fix-it fic, but i also wanted to do it with an interesting protagonist/reason. let me know what you think!


	3. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace meets an impatient Prefect, a bookish boy, and her dorm-mates.

Two days before Grace was to leave for Hogwarts, she felt a tell-tale ache in her temples. She didn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. Despite Healer Kane’s countless warnings, Grace simply could not let the oncoming paroxysm—that churn of unrestrained magic trapped within her—control her. She ran three laps around the yard, ignoring the fierce drumming trapped behind her temples, and did twenty push-ups in her bedroom before her arms began to ache. She would power through it, ignore the constant ache in her head and all other signs, and go to Hogwarts. She _had_ to go to Hogwarts.

Despite her determination, Grace passed out that very evening, and when she came to, she knew just from the look on her Mum’s face and James’s absence that she had missed the Sorting.

“I’m fine,” she said, but her tongue felt heavy and her head was fuzzy, so the words came out slurred and entirely unbelievable.

“We’re worried, Gracie,” Dad said, and he smoothed back her hair with his wrinkled hand. “We’re in the wee hours of September 2nd.”

Her throat closed in, and she felt a terrible knot in her stomach. “Oh.”

“We’re very sorry, darling,” Mum said. She hesitated before asking, “A—are you sure you’re feeling up to go to Hogwarts this year? We could always homeschool you the first year and have you go the next—”

“No,” Grace croaked, and the dullness in her head cleared for a moment, allowing frantic panic to settle in. “No, I’ve got to go. It’s only the Sorting that’s over. I can be back for the first day of classes—”

“Darling, no,” Mum said softly, and put her warm hand over Grace’s trembling ones. “You’ve got to rest at least a day—”

“But—”

“No buts,” Dad said, and his voice was just as tender. “At least a day, for monitoring and recuperation.”

Grace slumped against her bed. “Okay,” she said. This wasn’t a _no_ , she reminded herself. It was only a _wait_. “Can I get some draught?”

After she was administered a healthy dosage of Calming Draught, she crawled back under the covers of her hospital bed. She felt a little less rattled, but her body still ached like it had been struck by lightning nearly a dozen times. A couple of Healers came through the ward, but none of them were Grace’s, so she paid them no mind.

Her thoughts were transfixed on the train ride she had missed, the Sorting she had missed, and the first day of classes she _would_ miss.

She had seen the Hogwarts Express before—once—when James was setting course for Hogwarts exactly one year ago. The train was scarlet and black, with ‘Hogwarts’ inscribed in thick, golden letters. It shone in the shafted light, and Grace had wanted so badly to sit in one of the plush little compartments in the train, had so badly wanted to peek her head out of the window, feel the wind of the countryside tickle her face, see the green and gold of farmland blur by.

She had wanted so badly to see the Great Hall—a place that seemed more myth than reality. James had told Grace about it, of course. He had told her that it was so large it might have been able to house an island, and that there were candles upon candles strung from the ceiling. He had told her that the Great Hall was where all the fun happened: it was the site of James’s first prank (spiking Slytherins’ pumpkin juice with Giggling Potion), where James had met and formed his group of friends (they called themselves the _Marauders_ ), and where hundreds of owls rained down from the atria every morning (it was like a shower of feathers).

Grace’s lips curved into a small, tight frown. More than the train or the Great Hall, Grace wanted to be _away_. Away from Godric Hollow, where the neighbors treated Grace like glass, and away from St. Mungos, where the Healers acted worse. She wanted to be where she could remake herself completely. She wanted to be somewhere where she could rub her temples for a moment, and no one would think anything of it.

“Darling,” Mum said. Her hand was still wound around Grace’s. The fluorescent light of the ward made her copper skin gleam. “Why don’t you take a nap and rest up a bit? I’ll wake you when Healer Kane arrives.”

Grace knew her Mum would do no such thing. No force on earth could ever compel Euphemia Potter to willingly rouse her otherwise sleep-deprived daughter from a nap.

“No, I’m not tired,” Grace said, and it was half-truth, half-lie. Her body was weak and ached terribly, but her mind was frantic and abuzz. There was no way she would fall asleep now, especially not without a sleeping draught.

“Are you sure?” Dad said. He grimaced. “This was one was...rather drawn out, Gracie. I think some sleep would be good for you.”

“I’ll wait for Healer Kane,” Grace said resolutely.

Grace could not imagine going to sleep. She did not remember much of what happened right before her paroxysm was triggered, but she did remember bits and pieces—fragments of reality that she had torn away from the moment so quickly and thoroughly that they became distorted. She remembered curved glass, like a sphere, like a window ballooning; she remembered white birds—peacocks, maybe, because the tail was like fan—but it was likely just some porcelain from the kitchen table; she remembered a whisper against her ear. She didn’t know what the whisper had conveyed, only that it was there, and that although it was light there was a terrible weight to it.

None of these things on their own were particularly frightening. It was not, after all, the fragments of memories that terrified Grace; it was the loss of control, the absence of the full picture. These were less memories and more dreams, and Grace did not want to revisit them.

No, she would not rest. Her eyes burned, but that was better than having the far reaches of your mind explode relentlessly as the world muddled around you.

“Grace,” a familiar voice greeted. “How are you feeling?”

Grace looked up and saw Healer Kane at the end of her hospital bed. Her pale green robes were stained with some purple along the skirt, and her thick dark hair was tucked under a protective cap. There was a Healer-in-training behind her, a mousy boy with shorn hair and thick-rimmed glasses, who was scribbling furiously on a long piece of parchment.

“I’m okay,” Grace said.

Healer Kane had already taken her wand out, tracing it over Grace’s body while a bluish haze emanated from the tip. “Sorry about the delay,” she said, although more to Grace’s parents than Grace herself. “There was a critical condition in the adjacent ward.”

“We understand,” Mum said. Her hand gripped Grace’s tighter.

“It’s been a while since your last episode,” Healer Kane said, retracting her wand. She did not sound the least bit impressed; in fact, she was frowning. “Four months, in fact—”

“Perhaps I’m getting better?” Grace tried.

“How are you, Grace— _really_?”

Grace’s eyes dropped back to the covers. She never really knew how to answer that question. She remembered how she had answered it the very first time she had ever had a paroxysm, when she was four. Grace had just cried and cried and cried, and James had gotten so scared that he had cried as well.

But now this was normal. Didn’t Grace always feel half-drained, her head buzzing? Wasn’t this _fine_ , because it wasn’t _worse_?

“I’m okay,” she said again.

Healer Kane sighed. “This was your most drawn out episode to date, Grace. You didn’t stop seizing till half the day had gone by. You must stop fighting it.”

“Sorry.” Grace’s throat was very tight. “I just hate it when I feel it coming, and I want it to stop. Sometimes I don’t even realize I’m fighting it.”

“I know,” Healer Kane said softly, mournfully. “I know.” She glanced at Grace’s parents. “I think it would be more effective if we administered Calming Draught when Grace feels an episode coming on.”

Dad frowned. “Our last Healer tried that already—four years ago. It only delayed the episode longer. She was stuck with a migraine for nearly a week. We can’t go back to that.”

Healer Kane whisked off her cap. “I see.” She glanced at the younger Healer behind her. “Would you mind grabbing Grace Potter’s file? I need to check what preventative potions were given to her—”

“We’ve tried Sleeping Draught, too,” Mum added. “And Weakness Potions. It’s like Monty said—they all delayed the episode longer.”

“I do remember a rather long list of potions from her file,” Healer Kane said. “Perhaps we should wean off the potions, and move to herbological remedies. Sage might be a good place to start—”

The conversation went on, and Grace tuned out, creeping further into the covers. She did not really care what decision her parents and Healer Kane came to, because she knew it would not work. Nothing worked.

* * *

“And James has taken your trunk already,” Mum reminded her for what Grace believed to be the hundredth time, “so it ought to be in the teachers’ lounge or perhaps in the Headmaster’s office. After you’re Sorted, _ask_ him whether it’ll be in your dormitory, alright?”

“Okay, Mum,” Grace said. She was dressed smartly, in her set of black first-year robes, fidgeting in front of the fireplaces at St. Mungo’s.

“Write to us later,” Dad said tearfully, “so we know how your day’s gone, how you’re feeling—”

“And you have that satchel of sage, right?” Mum fretted. “Remember to burn some every night. Write to us if you need more—”

“I will, Mum,” Grace said impatiently. “Can I go now? Dumbledore’s probably expecting me.”

It was eight o’clock in the evening of what should have been her second day at Hogwarts. Since Grace had missed the Sorting and the first day of classes, Dumbledore had written saying she should Floo to his office to be caught up and could then join her peers in the dorms for the night. Grace was excited at the prospect of finally spending a night away from her parents, if only she could get away from them.

Dad enveloped her in a hug, and then Mum did as well. Grace wrapped her arms around the both of them—or at least tried to—and silently wished her parents could speed things along.

“Alright,” Dad said, sniffing. “Off you pop.”

“We love you, darling,” Mum said, eyes damp. “Be safe.”

“Have fun.”

“Thanks,” Grace said, stepping into the fireplace. The emerald green flame tickled her slightly. “I love you, too.”

“Remember to write—”

“Headmaster’s Office, Hogwarts!” Grace said loudly, throwing down the Floo powder.

Her parents’ teary faces were torn away from her, and soon Grace found herself in the familiar, portrait-lined office of the Headmaster. She stepped out of the fireplace, dusting some soot off of the lining of her robes.

“Ah, Miss Potter,” Dumbledore said from behind his desk. He had a large book open, but vanished it away as soon as he saw Grace step in. “How are you feeling?”

“Hello, Professor. I’m fine.” Grace’s eyes roved over the Headmaster’s office.

The portraits were still pretending to sleep, although Grace still didn’t understand why. Dumbledore’s bookshelves were still laden with ancient books, and the same silvery instruments were dotted around the office. The only difference was that this time there was a bird perched in the very back of Dumbledore’s office, and it was no ordinary bird.

It was a phoenix with a brilliant scarlet plumage and tail feathers that transcended from light orange to deep red, as though its body was just one, wavering flame. The bird’s dark beady eyes locked with Grace’s, and she gave the bird a small wave. It squawked at her lowly.

“Hello to you, too,” Grace said quietly, astounded.

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore smiled. He rose and crossed the room, but not to reach Grace. “That is Fawkes—a phoenix, as you may have noticed. He has been incredibly helpful in the occasional tight situation.”

Dumbledore did not seem the least bit concerned that an animal imbued with powerful magical energy was a mere meter away from Grace. From this, Grace concluded that Healer Kane had _not_ told Dumbledore that she ought not be near magical animals lest it trigger her paroxysm. A sly little smile crept onto Grace’s lips. Had Healer Kane neglected to mention other things? Perhaps Grace would be allowed to fly on a _real_ broomstick at Hogwarts. Perhaps she could order herself her own owl from Eeylops once she stored up enough allowance.

Dumbledore went to a shelf near the very back of the office, and lifted a ragged, tattered hat from the top. Grace’s eyes followed him.

“Is that the Hat?”

“Why, yes, it is—shall we commence with your Sorting?” Dumbledore gestured for the seat in front of his desk.

Grace rushed to the chair, and the persistent dull throb that had been lingering in her bones ever since she came to last night vanished. Grace was abuzz with excitement. Her wide hazel eyes watched with eagerness as Dumbledore placed the Hat atop her head.

It was very large, drooping far over her eyes so she was staring into the dark interior fabric of the Hat. For a moment, nothing happened, and Grace wondered how exactly it was that the Hat functioned. She had thought it was something like an on-off switch, and would simply shout out the House you belonged to as soon as it touched your head; at least, that was what had happened with James. But instead, seconds passed, and then a low groan emitted from somewhere within the Hat.

 _Rather late, aren’t you?_ the Hat said grumpily, and Grace started at the voice that seemed to echo from within her head.

Grace’s expression soured slightly. _Well, I was in agonizing pain for the better part of three days, but I’m_ _so_ _sorry for messing up_ your _schedule._

To her surprise, the Hat simply chuckled, and the initial weariness disappeared. _It’s about time I got a Potter who wasn’t like the rest._

The Hat’s words made Grace’s stomach drop. A Potter was many things: respectful and chivalrous and passionate. But in the context of Hogwarts, there was one thing and only one thing a Potter was: a Gryffindor. And if Grace was not like other Potters, did that mean she wouldn’t be able to join James in bright, shining Gryffindor?

 _Gryffindor?_ the Hat chortled, and Grace found herself slowly despising the idea of an object being able to read your every thought. _Oh—no, no, no. You’ve got your eye on the future, and Gryffindor is much more focused on the now._

Grace was not entirely sure what that meant, but she argued anyway: _But you need the present to get to the future._

 _Maybe that’s true_ , the Hat said. _What do I know? I’m a hat._

Grace felt that was an accurate assessment.

_Regardless, Gryffindor is far too rushed for you. You need something steadier, more supportive…. The present may be the path to the future, but you still need something to get you there._

_Oh, great,_ Grace thought glumly, shoulders dropping. _I guess it’s Hufflepuff for me after all._

“SLYTHERIN!” the Hat shouted out loud, and Grace shot up from her chair, wide-eyed. She plucked the Hat off her head and held it away from her like it was some sort of poisonous insect.

“Well,” Dumbledore said pleasantly behind the desk, distant and unaffected as anything, “that takes care of that.”

“Sir?” Grace said, still staring at the Hat. “Is it possible for the Hat to have made a mistake?”

Because it must have made a mistake. Slytherin was not for Potters. Slytherin was not for _anyone_ who was supposed to be respectful and chivalrous and passionate. Grace swallowed thickly, and let the Hat drop onto Dumbledore’s desk. The dull throb in the back of her head returned in full force, and Grace staggered back into her seat.

“I assure you, Miss Potter, the Hat’s decisions are not without cause,” Dumbledore said calmly. “You will see, in time, that there are a number of perfectly good attributes Slytherin possesses.”

Grace stared at Dumbledore like he had grown two heads in the process of their conversation. Good attributes? In Slytherin? She wasn’t entirely sure that was possible.

“Okay,” she said, not at all believing him.

Dumbledore moved the Hat out of the way a little before picking up a quill and dipping it in an inkpot. The ink wasn’t the normal black that Grace was used to; it was deep blue, and seemed to gleam within the inkpot. Dumbledore began writing out a message on a piece of parchment, and Grace craned her neck to get a look at it. She could only make out the upside-down word ‘Prefect’ before Dumbledore folded up the note and handed it to Fawkes, who took it in his beak.

“Would you deliver that to Professor Slughorn?” Dumbledore asked.

Fawkes flapped his great, flame-colored wings and flew into the air before disappearing in a flash of fire. Grace felt a warm blast of air hit her from the force of the teleportation.

“As you have only missed the first day of classes,” Dumbledore began, and Grace looked away from the place Fawkes had vanished, “there is not a lot to catch up on. I believe the Slytherin first-years have only had Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Double Charms. The first couple of classes simply give an overview and cover very basic, introductory material. Reading your textbooks for these classes and asking for a classmate’s notes should prepare you aptly for the coming week.”

“Okay,” Grace said, but she wasn’t sure if any classmate in Slytherin would share their notes.

Her idea of Slytherins came entirely from James, and he had said they were greasy little snots. Grace didn’t think people like that would be very forthcoming with their notes, or would even want to help a classmate of theirs to succeed if they weren’t getting anything out it.

“Madam Pomfrey, our school matron, has been informed about your condition and debriefed by your regular Healer. As you’ve just come from St. Mungo’s, I believe you can begin your weekly check-ups starting next Monday?”

Grace nodded. “That sounds good.”

Dumbledore beamed, and his blue eyes flew over Grace’s head. She turned in the direction he was looking, and saw a much older student appear from the spiral staircase. She was very tall with hair so pale it seemed to be white in the light. Her lips were thin and pursed, and her eyes flew from Dumbledore to Grace. She wore Slytherin colors—green and silver—and there was a badge with a large ‘P’ pinned to her chest.

“Miss Black,” Dumbledore greeted, and Grace’s brows rose ever so slightly. “Thank you for coming so speedily.”

The Prefect nodded imperiously. “Yes. Professor Slughorn was hosting his club when he received your note.”

“I see.” Dumbledore gestured to Grace with one hand. “Miss Potter is the newest member of Slytherin. As you can see, she’s arrived a couple of days late. I trust you can show her to the common room?”

The Prefect nodded once more, and Dumbledore smiled again.

Grace rose. “Er—thanks, Professor. Bye.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said. “I expect I’ll see you.”

“Right,” Grace said tonelessly, and turned away from him.

She followed the Slytherin Prefect down the stairs and out of the office. She wanted to ask the older girl if she was at all related to one Sirius Black, but the Prefect walked so fast and so far ahead of Grace that Grace could do nothing but jog behind her.

“The Slytherin common room is near the dungeons,” the Prefect said. Her voice had a slight nasal quality to it, and she sped through her sentences quickly, as though she wanted this interaction to be over as soon as possible. “It’s a very simple process: the entrance is concealed behind a stone wall. Just say the password, and you’ll enter immediately. Passwords change every fortnight, so make sure you’re kept up-to-date.”

“Alright,” Grace said as they entered the dungeons, steadily growing more and more unhappy.

The area was less inviting than the path to Gryffindor tower. The air down here was damp and cool, and Grace shivered against it. There were only a few enchanted torches hung about, so it was dark, with only the occasional sliver of light. This place was neither warm nor friendly, and Grace dreaded what the interior of the Slytherin common room would look like.

“The password right now is ‘veritaserum,’” the Prefect said as they rounded up on a bare wall.

Immediately, the wall melted away, and Grace saw into a large stone room with green-hued lamps and plush, silky chairs. There were tapestries hung about the interior, made with rich green and silver thread; some of them depicted the Slytherin emblem while others were of austere wizards and witches. Great windows were dotted about the stone walls, and Grace was not sure if they were enchanted to seem like they contained water or if the common room really was so far below ground that they were looking into the Great Lake. Either way, the effect of the windows was quite soothing—the water shifted peacefully and seemed to sparkle under the lamps. There were leather sofas grouped in clumps around the room, and a couple of students lounged about near them. Grace stuck to the Prefect’s side as they entered, watching the students scrupulously.

They were mostly older students who seemed to be catching up. But there was one lone student who seemed no older than herself sitting near the fire, with no less than three textbooks opened in front of him. His hand was moving at lightning-speed across a piece of parchment, and, near him, was a yawning black cat.

“You’re a first-year, right?” the Prefect asked. She was walking towards the boy.

“Yes.”

“Regulus!” the Prefect called, and the boy nearly jumped out of his skin.

He looked up at the Prefect with wide grey eyes, quill still pressed to paper. When his eyes met the Prefect’s, the surprise melted away. He scowled at her and bent back to his paper.

“What is it, Narcissa?” he asked.

“There’s a new student,” the Prefect, Narcissa, said. She gestured at Grace. The boy didn’t look up to see. “I’ve got to go back to Slug Club. Could you just—” she faltered, searching for the word, “—explain things to her?”

“Explain _what_?” Regulus asked, stopping his writing.

“I don’t know,” Narcissa snapped. “Explain anything she has questions about. I’m leaving.”

“Why?” Regulus said, finally looking up. “Do you miss _Malfoy_ or something?”

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll be going now.”

She scarcely looked at Grace as she left. Grace watched the billow of Narcissa’s silver-hemmed robes as the Prefect vanished beyond the hidden stone entrance. She glanced back down to the boy—Regulus, had the Prefect said? Wasn’t that supposed to be Sirius’s brother’s name? Wasn’t he supposed to be in Hufflepuff?

Grace sat in front of the fire, leaning against the bottom of the emerald loveseat. The black cat to the right of Regulus regarded her inquisitively; one of the cat’s eyes was yellow while the other was blue. Grace put out a hand. The cat approached it cautiously, sniffed it, and then—as if to say _not good enough_ —stuck her nose up in the air and stalked away, toward Regulus’s left side.

“You’ve upset Cliodna,” Regulus said, glancing at his cat. He set his quill down, and petted her. Cliodna purred deeply.

“No, she’s gone and upset herself,” Grace said defensively. She hadn’t told Cliodna to come smell her palm, had she? No—the blasted cat had done that all by herself. If she was upset by it, then it was her own fault for approaching Grace at all.

“You’re a new student?” Regulus asked after a moment.

When he turned to her, Grace was struck by the similarity to Sirius. Regulus had nearly the same face: oval-like, with a sharp jaw, dark and wavy hair, grey eyes that seemed like a storm in the dull light. There were minute differences, of course. Regulus’s hair was shorn significantly shorter than Sirius’s; it crept slightly past the nape of his neck, but no more than that. His face was more wane, more tired, and his pink lips were twisted into a slight frown instead of the bright grin Sirius had worn every day of Easter break.

“I suppose,” Grace said. “I’m a new student in the same way you’re a new student.”

Regulus regarded her strangely. “I suppose,” he echoed. Cliodna mewed from his left side, and Regulus petted her absentmindedly. “What’s your name?”

“Grace Potter.”

“Oh,” Regulus said, and all the rigidness from his body fled in an instant. He turned back to his parchment and textbooks, and picked his quill back up. “I’ve heard of you.”

“What do you mean?” Grace said, and tried very hard to keep her voice level and calm. Had someone told him of her condition? Had James told Sirius, and had Sirius told Regulus?

“Your brother mentioned you in the train.” Regulus said this like he was just commenting on the weather while Grace felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head.

“Why?”

“Sirius asked where you were—oh, Sirius is my brother, by the way—”

“I know.”

“Right. Your brother probably told you that, yeah?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Well, Sirius asked where you were. I reckon your brother told him you were starting Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Grace said, words hard. “What did James say?”

Regulus’s eyes flickered to Grace’s right arm. “He said you broke your arm playing Quidditch.”

Grace relaxed back against the loveseat. “Yeah, it happened right before we were supposed to leave.”

Regulus stared at her curiously. “Couldn’t you have made it back in time for the Sorting? My mother can fix broken arms in a sweep.”

“I had to use Skele-Gro,” Grace said. “It took nearly the whole day. And then my parents got worried and wanted to keep me an extra day to make sure I was alright.”

Grace didn’t feel very bad for lying. After all, it wasn’t a very big lie. Grace had never been administered Skele-Gro, but James had taken it once after a very nasty fall from a poplar tree. And her parents _had_ been worried, and did indeed keep her at St. Mungo’s for an extra day.

Regulus processed this for a second or so before deciding there wasn’t much to say in response. He turned back to his parchment.

“What’re you doing?” Grace asked, following the quill as it struck paper. He seemed to be scribbling something about a man named Jarleth Hobart. “Have we got homework?”

“No,” Regulus said easily. “We finished with Double Charms today, and Professor Flitwick taught the levitation charm. I thought I should take notes about it in case he asks something about its history or recent usage next class.”

“Why?”

“So I’ll know the answer if he asks a question.”

“Isn’t the point of a class for you to learn the answers to questions _in_ them instead of outside of them?”

Regulus glanced at her. “You sound like you should be in Ravenclaw.”

“You act like you’re in Ravenclaw,” Grace said, watching with growing disinterest as Regulus’s hand did not leave the parchment even once. She decided very quickly that the younger Black was nothing at all like the older one, and she could not figure out if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

“You ought to catch up,” Regulus said after a moment of silence.

He handed Grace one of the three textbooks laid out in front of him. It was _A Concise Compilation of Flying Charms_. Grace took it with both hands, and frowned at the picture of a wizard floating upside down.

“It’s got the wand technique for _Wingardium Leviosa_.” Regulus flipped the book open for her, stopping at page fifty-three. “See?”

“Yeah,” Grace said, eyeing the drawn figure of a hand holding a long black wand. The hand was flicking the wand repeatedly. “Thanks…?”

“We can practice if you want.” There was a thread of eagerness running through Regulus’s words, as though he had been wanting to practice ever since he learned the spell but hadn’t wanted to do it alone.

It would be useful if Grace had someone bookish like Regulus Black around, especially if she was going to be in and out of the Hospital Wing every other month. But, on the other hand, he was _too_ bookish. For Merlin’s sake—the first-year was writing what seemed to be a small novel for _fun_? _Personal edification_?

Grace’s time at Hogwarts wouldn’t be even a sliver like James’s if she befriended someone like Regulus Black. Although—to be quite frank—her time at Hogwarts was already looking to be quite different from James’s.

“Er—” Grace tore her eyes away from the cover of the book, “—well, I think I’ll head up to my dormitory, actually. It’s been a long day.” Regulus’s shoulders fell, and Grace hastily added, “But tomorrow we could practice together, if you want? It’d be good if I learned the spell soon so I’m not so behind.”

She did not want to distance herself from a potential resource too soon, not without checking to see what the rest of Slytherin was like.

A small smile crept across Regulus’s lip. It wasn’t anything like Sirius’s: it wasn’t bright or wide, like a sun bursting through a row of clouds. It was soft and silent and thoroughly heartfelt. It slipped across his lips like a light breeze.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Girl’s dormitory is on the left, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Grace said, getting up. She glanced down at Cliodna, who had curled into Regulus’s side. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Regulus nodded enthusiastically before turning back to his two remaining textbooks and scroll of parchment. Grace grasped the textbook firmly in her right hand before marching up the stairs on the left side of the common room. The stairs wound upward, and the stone wall was curiously warm.

As Grace climbed toward the first-year girl’s dormitory, she realized with a jolt that she had forgotten to ask Dumbledore whether her trunk had been transported off the Hogwarts Express or not. Well—hopefully it was there...and, if it wasn’t, hopefully her dorm-mates would be nice enough to let her borrow a robe for tomorrow. Regulus Black—helpful and agreeable as he was—had been sorted into Slytherin somehow, so surely others like him were in the House as well.

Grace bit her lip as she reached the first-year enclave. There was a single dark green door that separated her from what was to be her new room for the rest of the year. Her heart hammered against her chest. Grace had never had to share a room before (save those rare nights when James would sleep over), and she hoped none of the girls would be like the Slytherins James had talked about—rude and annoying and snotty.

Grace twisted the handle and walked in. There were six beds, but only three girls there, who were all crowded around the middle bed. They looked up the instant Grace entered, and Grace’s stomach dropped as she took in their faces: all hard eyes and pursed lips. If Grace were James, she might have been able to charm them into liking her.

But Grace was only Grace: not-charming, dour, Slytherin Grace.

“Hello,” Grace said awkwardly. The book in her right hand felt like a boulder dragging her down. “I’m Grace—I was just Sorted.”

“Grace _who_?” one of the girls asked. Her hair was a sleek, sandy brown, and her lips were curved into a sneer. Grace knew immediately they were not going to get along.

“Potter,” Grace said simply. All three of them laughed. Grace’s jaw clenched. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Potters don’t get into Slytherin,” the same girl said. She said it like it was some sort of universal truth, and, to be honest, if Grace herself hadn’t been Sorted into Slytherin a mere thirty minutes ago, she might have agreed with the girl in front of her. “Slytherin isn’t for blood traitors.”

Grace was not entirely sure what that meant, but she knew it couldn’t be anything good. Her eyes flashed. “Slytherin isn’t for dolts, either, and yet—somehow—you made it, so I suppose we’re all learning something new today.”

The smug smile fell off of the girl’s face. She harrumphed, glanced at Grace darkly, and then returned to the pack of tarot cards she had been sorting through with the other two girls.

Grace walked along the beds, and spotted her own trunk nestled snugly in front of the very last bed. It was so furiously gold and crimson that Grace’s heart sank as soon as her eyes landed on it. She threw the book Regulus had given her on top of her trunk, and collapsed into her new bed, closing the emerald green hangings so she was enveloped in darkness.

So—that was it, then? She had met five people in Slytherin thus far, and all of them seemed to want nothing to do with her, except for Regulus. That bookish boy might end up being the only friend she would have at Hogwarts after all.

Grace turned on her side, glaring furiously into the green of her bed hangings. If she had been Sorted into Gryffindor, she would have likely made twenty different friends by now. She would have enjoyed a warm common room with plush crimson chairs and a roaring fire. She would have dorm-mates who didn’t sneer at her last name and call her ‘blood traitor.’

She would have been happy, probably.

But, no—apparently Grace was as un-Gryffindor as they come. She wasn’t fit for that House, so now she was stuck _here_. In the worst House of them all. Merlin, even Hufflepuff seemed desirous now.

Grace flipped back around so she was staring up at the roof of her bed. So this was how it was going to be, huh? Would every day of her time at Hogwarts be spent like this? Trading barbs with her dorm-mates, closing herself off from the rest of the House in her bed. How was she going to get about classes with this lot? Sure, she had Regulus— _maybe_ —but that was only one person. James had _four_ close friends—four wonderful, shining Gryffindor friends, and—

Oh, _fuck_ —

How was she going to tell James? James who absolutely _despised_ Slytherin, who had made it his life’s goal to torment Slytherins by spiking their drinks and transfiguring their clothes? How could she tell _him_ that his _sister_ —his own flesh and blood—was now Slytherin’s newest member?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	4. Hearth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace forms a plan, loses a friend, meets a trigger-happy Hufflepuff, gains a friend, and finds the kitchens.

Grace barely slept through the night. Her thoughts swirled in her head like some great vortex, and in the midst of them was her brother. She decided very quickly that James absolutely could not find out that she had been Sorted into Slytherin. She was very sure that this revelation could lead to one of two things: James having a heart attack or James cutting Grace out of his life completely. The latter was more likely.

If James found out Grace was in Slytherin, there would be no more sneaking into Dad’s study together. There would be no more of James slinking into Grace’s room in the dead of night because he was too excited or too bored to sleep alone. There would be no more of James swiping extra strawberry pastries for Grace, no more of James pestering Grace with pictures of his owl, no more of James talking with Grace or laughing with Grace or even smiling with Grace.

And Grace simply could not let that happen. She’d have to hide this Sorting from him as though her life depended on it.

There was one tiny problem, however: all of her first-year black robes had magically taken on the Slytherin insignia and colors as soon as she had been Sorted. This wasn’t exactly surprising, but it was frustrating. Just one glance at Grace, and James would know what House she had been Sorted into.

The natural solution was, of course, to never allow James a moment to glance at Grace.

“Which set of robes should I wear for today, Cella?” The voice was shrill and sudden, and pierced through the air like the whistle of a tea kettle.

Grace peeked through a slit in her hangings, and saw the sandy-haired girl from last night staring intensely at two robes another girl was holding up. She could make out a couple of other girls she had not seen the night before: one with frizzy hair and a yawning mouth, and another with smooth auburn hair that was tied back at the nape of her neck.

The auburn-haired girl was rummaging through her trunk for something. She glanced at sandy-haired girl and the girl with the robes. “It hardly matters whether you go to classes in a black robe with silver trim or a black robe without silver trim, Yang.”

Yang huffed. “It matters to _me_ , Greengrass.”

“It’s the second day of classes, and we’ve already got a feud going?” another girl said, emerging from the bathroom. Her skin was a deep russet, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. “Shall I acquaint Greengrass with my stinging hex?”

Greengrass rolled her eyes. “Shall I acquaint you with my family’s barrister, Fuentes?”

Grace chose that moment to part the divide in her hangings and clamber out of bed. The conversation came to a halt as soon as she stood up.

“Who’re you?” the girl with frizzy hair asked. She had a comb in one hand and a bottle of Sleekeazy’s in the other.

“Oh, that’s _Potter_ ,” Yang jumped in before Grace could so much as open her mouth. “She came in last night.”

“Potter?” Greengrass repeated. She regarded Grace curiously, light eyes roving over her form and zeroing in on the Slytherin crest that was stitched into her robes. “Slept in your robes, did you?”

The frizzy-haired girl and Yang both snickered.

It was too early in the morning to trade insults, so Grace simply rolled her eyes, grabbed her toiletries from her trunk, and padded off to the bathroom. She splashed her face with some fresh water and glanced at herself in the mirror, frowning as she caught sight of her red eyes and messy hair. Grace smoothed back her hair as best she could, and tied it back into a high ponytail, curls brushing against her lower back. She rubbed at her eyes, but it only seemed to make the tinge of redness worse.

When she emerged from the loo, she found that all her dorm-mates had vanished.

“Wonderful,” Grace said sarcastically. What an adventure it would be—finding the Great Hall all on her own.

Grace froze as she reached for a new set of robes. Could she even go to the Great Hall? That was where _all_ students gathered for meals. That was where _James_ would be. And although he had told her that Gryffindor and Slytherin sat on opposite sides of the hall, Grace was almost certain that he would catch sight of her somehow.

Frowning deeply, Grace changed into a fresh set of robes, picked up her knapsack, and headed to the common room. She picked unconsciously at the crest that had been magically sewn into the robe. Did she _need_ to head to the Great Hall? She wasn’t exactly sure what else went on in there besides meals. Would their Head of House be taking attendance? Would she have to meet her Head of House there? Would she be in trouble if she didn’t show up?

“Morning!” a chipper voice called out, and Grace very nearly tripped from the suddenness of it.

Regulus Black was waiting in one of the armchairs besides the common room entrance. There was yet another book in his hands, but this one seemed to be a novel rather than a textbook, which Grace felt was a marginal improvement.

“Er—morning,” Grace said, stopping before him.

Regulus beamed, and rose. “I saw Rosier and the others heading out, but you weren’t there. I thought you might’ve slept in, so I decided to wait to show you to the Great Hall.”

A warm thrum flashed across Grace’s heart. “Oh—thanks—” she said, slightly flustered, “—I was wondering about that, actually. What exactly goes on in the Great Hall? Do I _need_ to be there?”

“Well, if you want to eat, then of course you’ve got to be there,” Regulus said matter-of-factly. He wore a small, bemused smile. “And you’ve got to get your daily schedule, of course.”

“Daily schedule?” Grace echoed.

“Yeah, it changes every day. Slughorn passes them out.”

Grace vaguely recalled the name Slughorn from James’s stories, but she wasn’t sure which professor that was. “But don’t we all have the same classes? Why do we each need a schedule?”

Regulus shrugged. “I dunno. We’re not all with each other all day long, are we? Suppose you’re coming back from the loo alone, and you’ve got to know what class you’ve got next.”

Grace snorted at the example. “Okay, well, I’ve got to go somewhere else—”

“Where?” Regulus asked immediately.

Grace frowned. “What’s it to you? _Somewhere_ , alright?”

After many years of dealing with James’s pestering, Grace’s voice had taken on a rather sharp quality. In the near-empty common room, it ricocheted off the stone walls—harsh yet hollow. It stung Regulus and Grace knew it, because Regulus had flinched, although he caught himself somewhere in the middle of the motion and straightened himself. Gone was the easiness of earlier; now, he was rigid as a board. The soft smile he wore earlier was replaced by a deep frown.

Grace was thoroughly perplexed. When she snapped, James snapped back; they were like two swords clashing. What had happened just now was like an axe had hit a tree and gotten stuck in the bark. But that was what axes were meant to do; why should the tree be upset?

“I just wanted to know—” Grace continued desperately, because she knew she had broken some invisible rule, had overstepped some imperceptible threshold.

But Regulus was already collecting his knapsack. He slid his novel into it, and Grace caught just a glimpse of the cover: _The Miraculous Mage_. His shoulders were slumped, and the tiny grimace was growing tinier and more deep set.

“I’ll just be in the Great Hall,” he said quickly. His eyes didn’t meet Grace’s.

He shifted his bag onto his shoulder, and surged out of the common room. And although Grace knew that he was going to the Great Hall to eat breakfast and get his schedule just like any other student, she could not help but feel like he was going there because he knew Grace would not.

Grace stood near the clump of armchairs for a moment longer while a terrible, little black cloud of guilt ate away at her heart.

First, she had missed the Sorting ceremony and the first day of classes. Then, she was Sorted into Slytherin, and the Prefect who was meant to help her had barely even spoken to her. Her dorm-mates certainly didn’t want anything to do with her. And, now, she had managed to upset the only person who might have been her friend.

Her first year at Hogwarts was absolute shite so far. Grace had never been more alone. For as long as she remembered, she had always been surrounded by people—whether or not she wanted them to be there. She remembered crowds of family members—distant great-aunts and fifth cousins twice removed—handing her presents during her birthday. She remembered crowds of Healers around her hospital bed when she was first being diagnosed.

But now she had no one. There were no crowds in Slytherin, just people passing through, just people who wanted nothing to do with her.

And this horrible little thought eased itself into her head: this was her own fault. She’d wanted freedom, hadn’t she? Well—this was it. Freedom was Grace Potter standing, damp-eyed, in the Slytherin common room while students rushed by without so much as a glance at her.

* * *

Grace followed a couple of older Slytherin students down to the Great Hall as discreetly as possible. She stuck close to the large columns, shadowed and passed over, and waited patiently for a group of Slytherin first-years to come out. She took out _A Concise Compilation of Flying Charms_ to help pass the time, and, to her further guilt, actually found it very helpful. By the time breakfast had ended, she could fully levitate the book itself.

As soon as Grace spotted a couple Slytherin first-years heading out of the Great Hall for an early start to class, she jumped from her crevice between two columns and raced out to follow them at a safe distance.

The Slytherin first-years were two boys: both with dark hair and large mouths. They were chatting animatedly about something called Slug Club. Grace vaguely remembered the Prefect from last night—Narcissa—had been at Slug Club. Was it some sort of special get-together for Slytherins?

The boys stopped in front at the door of a classroom on the first floor. There were a couple of stray Ravenclaw students already waiting nearby. Grace sidled up near them, leaning against the aged stone wall. She fiddled with the strap on her knapsack, waiting for the other students to arrive and for class to begin, lifting her head only when she caught sight of Regulus in her periphery.

He had his own little trio of friends: a tall boy with dark hair and a sneer, a bored boy who was staring at the opposite wall with dull blue eyes, and a pudgy boy with windswept hair who was absolutely talking Regulus’s ear off. Grace was briefly impressed by this; the boy didn’t seem to require oxygen. His mouth went on like it had its own motor despite the fact Regulus wasn’t paying him even the slightest bit of attention.

Grace ducked her head when she saw Regulus turn, but realized a moment later that he wasn’t turning toward her. The professor for this class—whatever it was—had just come to the door of the classroom.

Grace followed the other students’ stares, and her grip on the strap of her bag increased. This professor was impossibly tall and thin, towering over the small crowd of first-years. Her face held slight wrinkles—crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and mouth—but was otherwise taut and grim. Her greyed hair was sleek and pulled back into a severe bun. She looked to be just about the strictest person Grace had ever seen, and from this fact alone, Grace knew who it was: Professor McGonagall.

McGonagall had given Sirius and James fifty-eight detentions apiece in their first year at Hogwarts. McGonagall had made James scrub the trophy room, clear out an old broomshed on the Quidditch field, and shelf books in the library with Madam Pince. McGonagall, Grace had gathered, was absolutely not a person to be trifled with, so of course James had trifled with her—and on numerous occasions, too.

Grace’s stomach dropped to her feet. This professor was going to _despise_ her.

“Enter in an orderly manner, and partner up quickly,” McGonagall said. Her voice was just as sharp as her gaze. “I had Double Transfiguration with the first-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs yesterday, and we have much to cover if we’re to catch up.”

McGonagall surveyed the first-years with a sharp, careful eye as they filed in, and Grace saw instantly how this woman had given Sirius and James fifty-eight detentions each. There was something calculating in the way she traced over each student, as though she could tell just from a glance whether or not any particular student would be a troublemaker.

Grace shuffled in behind a couple of students, and rushed to the very back of the classroom. The room was very long but not very wide, so the front seemed miles away from the back, but that would be fine if it meant McGonagall wouldn’t see her. Grace settled into one of the two empty seats at the elongated desk. Eventually, an out-of-place Ravenclaw decided to sit besides Grace, but he wasn’t very happy about it. He took one look at Grace—at her Slytherin crest—and promptly scooched his chair a bit further away.

Grace didn’t quite notice. She was leaned onto the desk, palm cradling her head, watching Regulus slip into the center table at the very front of the classroom. The talkative boy settled in besides him easily, and Regulus’s lips twisted downward. Grace didn’t understand why Regulus didn’t just sit with another person, why he didn’t just get up and leave behind the chatty Slytherin first-year he so clearly despised and find a new partner.

Grace’s eyes flew over the rest of the Slytherins in the room. They were scattered about, but nearly always with another Slytherin. Grace saw Fuentes and Greengrass sitting on opposite sides of the room, Fuentes with Yang, Greengrass with the frizzy-haired girl. Fuentes was snickering with Yang, discreetly pointing at Greengrass every once in a while. Clearly, they had entered another sort of feud since this morning.

The other Slytherins were either chattering or flipping through their textbooks boredly, waiting for the last few students to enter. There were a pair of Slytherins near the middle of the classroom. One of them was Cella—was that her name?—and the other was almost certainly her twin brother, because he had the same sleek, sandy hair and heavy-lidded eyes. The pair gave off a distinct air of arrogance, and Grace was almost certain that this was because they were well-liked and admired, at least in Slytherin. She wasn’t sure what their family was, but it was likely an old one.

Grace’s eyes wavered back to Regulus, who seemed to be trying to hide from the talkative boy by making himself as small as possible. Regulus was hunched over the Transfiguration textbook, and his head was ducked.

Why didn’t he just sit with one of the twins? The House of Black was an old family, too—and a Slytherin one at that. He shouldn’t have any trouble finding friends he would actually _like_ in Slytherin, so why was he allowing himself to be tortured by that talkative boy?

Grace bit her inner cheek. She wondered if Regulus had also experienced some trouble getting along with the other Slytherins, although she couldn’t imagine why that might be the case. As far as she could tell, her dorm-mates weren’t much enthused by her presence because she was a Potter and Potters were supposed to be in Gryffindor. But Blacks were supposed to be Slytherin (with the exception of Sirius, for whom rules seemed not to apply), so surely Regulus shouldn’t have any problem fitting in?

McGonagall grimaced at some late-comers and then picked up roll call, going through the names as speedily as possible. Grace held her breath, anxiety bubbling in the pit of her stomach as she waited for the aged professor to reach her name. Would McGonagall sneer at her? Would she have it out for Grace for the rest of class? Would she find any excuse to give her detention?

But Grace’s name came and went, and McGonagall didn’t seem to care in the least. Her eyes didn’t even lift from the scroll of parchment, and Grace relaxed into her seat. Perhaps McGonagall was more objective than James gave her credit for.

Grace’s eyes wandered back to Regulus, who had taken a fresh scroll of parchment out and was already scribbling something down despite the fact class hadn’t officially started yet. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten along with the rest of Slytherin precisely because of this behavior. But when Grace looked around the classroom, she saw a couple of other Slytherins—the frizzy-haired girl and two other boys—flipping through _The Standard Book of Spells_ intensely. Surely Regulus would have gotten along with them?

“Eyes up,” McGonagall said after a moment, placing down her roll call.

Grace shifted her gaze to the front of the classroom as McGonagall began to explain the basics of Transfiguration. Grace dipped her quill in her inkpot and began scribbling down the transformation formula. Her hand was steady but her heart still beat uneasily.

Why had Regulus talked to her at all? No one else liked her, that was for certain, so why did he seem to? And had she missed her chance to be his friend—to have  _any_ friend—completely?

* * *

Grace hadn’t realized classes were back-to-back at Hogwarts. She thought first-years would be given some sort of break between classes. But when the mass of Ravenclaws and Slytherins streamed out of the Transfiguration classroom, she saw the whole lot of Slytherins heading upstairs together and figured, quite quickly, that there must be another class after this one.

She blended into the small army of Slytherins, slinking further and further into the crowd until she was right behind Regulus and the chatty boy. She wasn’t sure what type of person Regulus was. Perhaps he got over upsets very quickly. Perhaps he hadn’t even been very upset all (besides, he hadn’t gotten angry, just very quiet and dejected), and after nearly two and a half hours' worth of time to cool off, he’d probably gone back to his cheery self, right?

Grace thought she might as well try.

“...and mother won’t let me have acid pops any longer, you know? I thought it was because of the damage to enamel, but _apparently_ the candy was invented by a half-breed. Did you know that?” The chatty boy’s voice was grating, and went on and on without any type of inflection or enthusiasm. Listening to him was like listening to static, and Grace immediately felt bad for Regulus.

“Hey,” she said, and tapped Regulus on the shoulder.

Regulus very nearly jumped out of his skin. He twisted his head round to her. Grace had hoped he might lighten up when he saw her, but his dour expression didn’t change in the slightest.

“Oh, hello,” he said, and his shoulders sank back down.

He looked at her in the same way he had looked at the chatty boy earlier in Transfiguration, and that was enough to make Grace feel a thousand times worse than she already did. Was she really _that bad_?

“I was just wondering what class we’ve got next,” she asked lamely.

“You don’t _know_?” the chatty boy scoffed. Grace had heard his name during roll call, but couldn’t recall what it was. She only knew that it had reminded her of dank, musty places.

Grace’s dislike for him grew tenfold. “I wasn’t at breakfast, so I didn’t get a schedule.”

“Then perhaps you should have gone to Slughorn and asked him for one earlier. It’s called ‘thinking ahead.’ You should try it sometime.”

Grace's jaw clenched. “Thanks for the tip. Mind if I give you one? There’s a new trend on the rise: it’s called ‘shutting up.’ I think you’d really benefit from giving it a go.”

Chatty boy’s nostrils flared. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah—you’re the boy who’s causing my ears to bleed because he just won’t _shut up_ —”

“I could have my father sue your family for every puny knut you’ve got—”

“ _Ha_ —” Grace laughed harshly, “—I’d like to see you bloody try, mate—”

“I _will_ —”

“Would you stop engaging with her, Gamp?” Greengrass cut in. She and the frizzy-haired girl (Grace remembered her name was Lila Colvin from roll call) were watching the back-and-forth with barely-concealed annoyance.

The sleek-haired twins laughed (Rosiers—Magnus and Myrcella, or Cella as the other Slytherin girls had called her), and Magnus spoke: “Why should he? It’s honestly pretty entertaining, watching Gamp dig himself further and further into a hole.”

“ _I’m_ the one digging myself into a hole?” Gamp said shrilly.

“You’re not going to win any sort of legal battle with a Potter,” Greengrass scoffed. “Like it or not, her family could bury yours. Use your head, Gamp.”

Gamp muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘prat,’ and moved further back into the gaggle of Slytherins, presumably in search of a new victim to bore to death. Grace tore her eyes away from Greengrass, who had resumed her conversation with Colvin, and turned back to Regulus.

But he was no longer there. Grace swiveled around, and found that he had moved far ahead of the small crowd of first-years and was at their destination: a large classroom at the very end of the second floor hallway. A few Hufflepuffs had also found their way there, and the professor for this class was standing at the door, eyes darting over the incoming first-years. He was stout, with salt-and-pepper hair and a handlebar mustache.

“Alright, everybody in, everybody in,” he barked, waving Slytherins and Hufflepuffs alike into his classroom. He was so frantic about it that he very nearly pulled a third-year Ravenclaw into the classroom.

Grace was pulled into the classroom by the current of first-years and found, to her utter confusion, that the classroom was devoid of desks and chairs. Correction—there was _one_ desk pushed into the far corner of the room, with loose stacks of parchment piled atop it and a mobile chalkboard fitted snugly behind it. But, besides that, the room seemed completely bare. It was much wider and longer than the Transfiguration classroom. Grace figured it might have been able to house nearly all the first-years comfortably.

The other students had already gathered off into pairs and were spread out all across the room. Grace shifted awkwardly near the front of the class, eyes landing on the chalkboard. There was an incantation— _Rictusempra_ —scrawled onto it with a brief history written underneath. This class couldn’t have been Charms, because Regulus had told her they’d learned the Levitation Charm. This left Defense Against the Dark Arts, the only completely spell-based class besides Charms and Transfiguration, and Grace didn’t like that one bit. According to Dumbledore, the Slytherins had already had DADA yesterday, which meant Grace was one class behind.

Professor Sanderson clapped his hands together, bringing the class’s attention to him. His eyes roved over the student and landed on Grace. “Ah, right—I nearly forgot we had a new one.” He grasped the roll call scroll that was hanging on the edge of his table and looked through it. “Miss Potter, is it?”

Grace nodded. Nearly all eyes in the classroom shifted to her.

“Right...where to put you?” Sanderson began to walk amongst the students. “You lot are already in your pairs, are you? Are you evenly divided?”

“No, Professor,” one of the Hufflepuffs said. “Mine was a group of three.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Sanderson said. “And you were...ah, Shafiq, Henderson, Okeke. Oh, and with Miss Potter—our ratio of Slytherins to Hufflepuffs becomes one to one. Henderson and Okeke—you two can become your own pair, and...Miss Shafiq—” Sanderson’s eyes snapped to the very back of the classroom, and his voice became noticeably more curt, “—why don’t you pair with our dear Miss Rosier?”

Myrcella Rosier seemed quite pleased by this change, but Grace frowned. Didn’t this still leave her without a partner?

“And, Miss Potter, that leaves you with Mr. Cresswell.” Sanderson’s frown didn’t lift. “Perhaps _this_ arrangement will lessen the amount of ‘accidents’ in the classroom.”

Grace wanted to ask what it Merlin’s name _that_ was supposed to mean, but before she could even figure out how to pose the question, Sanderson had her move to her partner. Cresswell, who was standing in the very corner of the classroom, was tall and gangly, with tousled dark hair and a frown that could put Grace’s to shame. For a Hufflepuff, he didn’t look the slightest bit friendly, and Grace wondered if her professor had just paired her with a temperamental boy who had magical outbursts. Because that would really just complete the day, wouldn’t it?

“Er—hi,” Grace said cautiously.

“Hi,” he said shortly, not even glancing at her.

“We’ll be continuing our practice of the Tickling Charm,” Sanderson said. He demonstrated the wand gesture swiftly. “Remember the stress comes in the middle of the incantation: Rictu _sem_ pra. If you cast the spell effectively, raise your hand so I can perform the countercurse on your partner. Begin!”

The pairs spread out from each other. A couple overeager students began practicing immediately, and Grace saw bright flashes of purple light fly across the room. A swarm of giggles overtook the classroom. 

Grace blinked in surprise. She turned to Cresswell unsurely. “We’re just practicing these on each other? Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

She had heard various stories from James about how some students weren’t suited for spellwork. Sometimes the first spell they ever cast, no matter what it was, produced flames or a dangerous current of electricity. Grace grimaced. Perhaps something along those lines had happened yesterday with Cresswell.

Cresswell regarded her suspiciously, and then shrugged. He moved back ten paces and raised his wand.

“Alright…” Grace muttered under her breath. She took a couple of steps back as well and raised her own wand; the silver of it glinted under the light. “Shall we take turns, or—”

“Rictusempra!” Cresswell shouted, and Grace ducked immediately as a dull violet flash of light spat out from the end of his wand. It collided weakly against the back wall.

“Merlin, can’t you give me a warning?” Grace called out, standing up.

“Would you have?” Cresswell shot.

“ _Yes_! I was _asking_ you if you wanted to take turns. Merlin—is this why Sanderson switched your partner?” Grace shook her head and readied her stance.

Cresswell grew stony-faced. “In the real world, you don’t get warnings.”

Grace’s mouth fell open. Who in Merlin’s name was this kid? “Yes, and in case you haven’t noticed: this isn't the real world. We’re in a _classroom_.”

Cresswell’s look of doom and gloom didn’t let up in the slightest. Grace shot the Tickling Charm after giving a warning that Cresswell didn’t acknowledge in the slightest. To be fair, Grace had _no idea_ how to perform the spell so nothing came out the end of her wand. Grace frowned.

“Wait—” she called out. Cresswell shot another round of the spell, and Grace sidestepped it. “Merlin’s baggy pants—! Do you think you could explain to me _how_ to cast this spell? What’s the wand movement?”

It was like talking to a stone wall. Emotionless, he lowered his wand hand back down to his side and simply stared at her.

“Just—” Grace eyed in suspiciously and reached the knapsack she had placed gently on the floor earlier, “—just give me a moment to look it up, alright?”

She put her wand on the floor and slowly opened her bag, very much feeling like she was in the midst of some sort of bizarre negotiation with a madman. Cresswell gave her a jerky sort of nod but continued to stare at her like his very life depended on it.

Grace pulled out the DADA textbook and began flipping through it, finally landing on the Tickling Charm. She squinted down at the wand movement (it was sort of like jagged swirl) and very quickly skimmed through the paragraph about the motion of the spell before shoving the textbook back into her bag. She grabbed her wand and rose.

Cresswell immediately shot the spell again.

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Grace said just as she was hit. Her lips stretched into a wide smile, and she found herself overcome by a fit of laughter. “Ha—ha—you wan— _ha_ —ker—!”

Sanderson rushed over to the duo. “Very nice execution, Mr. Cresswell,” he said appreciatively while Grace laughed her head off. He performed the countercurse quickly and ambled off as yet another student was overcome with giggles.

Grace threw her wand to the floor and stalked over to Cresswell. “What’re you playing at?”

Cresswell’s grip on his wand grew exponentially tighter. “What’re _you_ playing at? I know your lot’s tricks.”

Grace was very close to tearing her hair out. “What does that _mean_? What’re you _talking about_? Merlin—can’t I just have a normal first day at this wretched school?”

Cresswell’s brows furrowed. “Are you serious right now?”

“Look, I only got in last night. I don’t know what spell this is or how to bloody cast it. So, I’d really—” Grace ground her teeth, “— _appreciate_ it if you didn’t blindly hex me every time I move.”

“But that’s what _you_ do,” he said defensively. “That’s what Rosier did yesterday. Why’d you think Sanderson replaced her with you?”

“I don’t know! I wasn’t even here yesterday!”

Cresswell pursed his lips before finally sighing and seeming to give Grace the benefit of the doubt. “Sanderson paired everyone up randomly yesterday, and I got Rosier. He taught us the spell for a half-hour and then had us get into our pairs, and then—outta nowhere—she shot a curse at me.”

“She _cursed_ you?” Grace said with heavy disbelief. “With _what_? She’s a _first-year_.”

Cresswell shrugged. “I dunno exactly, but it was strong enough to knock me out. I woke up in the Hospital Wing.” He kicked at some debris on the floor. “Not exactly the best welcome to Hogwarts—or magic in general. My mates told me that’s just how Slytherins are, apparently.” His eyes zeroed in on the crest on Grace’s chest. “I figured I wouldn’t let you lot pull one over me this time. I thought, this time, I’d get you before you got me.”

Grace decided to ignore that last bit. She was still stuck on the fact that Rosier tried to curse Cresswell in a _classroom_ of all places, and with a professor present! It just didn’t add up.

“I don’t understand,” Grace shook her head. “Why’d she want to curse you for no reason? Especially if Sanderson was there?”

“I dunno exactly,” Cresswell said again. “My mates say it’s ‘cause I’m Muggle-born, and Slytherins don’t like that.” He frowned. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that, though.”

Grace’s brows rose. “Oh, I get it. I’ve heard some of the pure-blood families are like that.” Grace glanced down the classroom, and spotted Rosier carving her wand into the air. She frowned deeply. “I figured Rosier was some sort of prat—”

Dirk snorted. “Understatement.”

“Tosser?” Grace tried again.

“Nutter?” Cresswell supplied.

“Whatever—I figured she was _all_ of those things. And I promise you I’m _none_ of those things.”

“You seem alright,” Cresswell granted. “But, to be clear, I’m still not gonna let you land a spell on me.”

“I suppose that’s understandable…. But I’m fairly certain Sanderson’s going to fail me if he never sees me manage to cast a spell on you.”

“God, this school is insane. Imagine if I told my dad the teachers here make us practice dangerous curses on each other? He’d flip his shit.” Dirk took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what—I’ll cast the spell on myself and we’ll let Sanderson think you did it. Does that sound alright?”

This would pose a problem much later, because, surely, at some point in her life she would be expected to cast the spell herself. But Grace figured she’d just have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

“Sure. Would you mind also—I don’t know—giving me a _warning_ the next time you try to cast the spell on me?”

Cresswell considered it. “Okay, fine.” He extended his hand. “Have we got a deal?”

Grace gave him a firm shake. “Yeah. Also, for the record, you’re the strangest boy I’ve ever met. I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be—” she searched uselessly for a word, "—different."

He actually grinned, although Grace didn’t understand why. If she were being honest, her words had come out more insulting that complimentary.

“Yeah, apparently everyone thinks we’re a load of duffers. Joke’s on them, though. We had a rave first night back.”

“Yeah—wait, _what_?”

* * *

By the time DADA had ended, Grace was absolutely starving. The supper she’d been given at St. Mungo’s yesterday evening seemed like eons ago. Now, there was a terrible gnawing in the pit of her stomach, as though her stomach was desperately trying to eat itself.

The first-year Slytherins had scattered after DADA, and Grace eventually surmised that it was lunch time. And even though every fiber of her body was begging her to step foot in the Great Hall and grab _something_ to eat, even a peppermint, she simply couldn’t bring herself to do so. The thought of running into James absolutely petrified her. She couldn’t even imagine seeing him. She wasn’t sure what she’d even say.

Truth be told, she didn’t think she’d even say anything. She was fairly certain she’d burst into tears the minute she caught sight of him and his gold-and-crimson Gryffindor crest.

So, no, Grace stayed away from the Great Hall, and eventually the hunger pangs faded and she was left with a stilted, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Of course, she’d have to find something to eat eventually. James had told her about the Hogwarts kitchens numerous times, but the trick was actually locating the area. She only knew it was near the Hufflepuff common room, which was supposedly hidden amongst barrels, but Grace didn’t even know where _that_ was. She didn’t know where _anything_ in this castle was, actually.

She didn’t even know where the History of Magic classroom was, and that was her next class (Grace had found this out by eavesdropping on Yang and Fuentes in the girl’s bathroom on the second floor). After wandering around for a few minutes, Grace finally resorted to asking two older Ravenclaws and eventually burst into class just a couple minutes' shy of being late.

Curiously, Regulus was sitting alone in the second row. Whether this was by choice or fate, Grace did not know, but she did decide to take advantage of it. She’d waited so long to come to Hogwarts. She’d waited so long to have someone to talk to who wasn’t James, and this—of course—was the most crucial part. Because Regulus, she reminded herself fiercely as she walked toward the second row, was _not_ James.

Grace sat down beside him, and Regulus turned to her in surprise. When he realized _who_ exactly decided to sit next to him, Regulus turned back to his parchment hastily, brows furrowed and lips stretched into a taut, flat line. He didn’t say anything, merely pressed his quill against parchment.

Grace itched to break the silence, but she didn’t know exactly what to say and she didn’t want to upset Regulus further, so she stayed quiet. She glanced down at his sheet of parchment, and frowned when she realized he wasn’t writing anything. He was just scraping thin black lines into the margins of the paper repeatedly.

Half the class gasped, and Grace’s head snapped up. To her utter bewilderment, a ghost floated in through the blackboard, seated himself at the desk in the front of the classroom, and began to read from the book on it: “In the year 1238, Harlunk the Hysterical incited a small-scale revolt amongst the goblins by spreading a very misinformed rumor that their union was to be disbanded. Now, as we have discussed previously, the goblins of the era were particularly distrustful of the people…”

“Discussed previously?” Grace found herself saying. “Isn’t this the first class?”

Regulus glanced at her surreptitiously. “Sirius told me Binns is senile.”

Grace tried to remember if James had ever said anything about Binns, but he had never once mentioned that one of the professors at Hogwarts was a ghost let alone a _senile_ one.

She looked back to Regulus, to see if he was as invested in the mystery of Binns as she was, but he had turned back to his parchment. It didn’t seem like he was very interested in pursuing any type of conversation concerning Binns, but Grace didn’t want to lose her chance. Regulus had at least spoken to her, so surely at least _some_ part of him wanted to still be friends with her.

“I didn’t know Hogwarts hired ghosts,” Grace tried, but the words fell flat.

Regulus shrugged. He returned to writing on parchment, and when Grace looked, she saw that he was writing down each word Binns was saying. She glanced around the classroom, and saw that a few diligent Ravenclaws were doing the same as Regulus, but the rest of the students had begun whispering to one another. A couple of Slytherins in the back had dozed off in the few minutes Binns had been lecturing.

“About earlier…” Grace began. It was no use going about this in a roundabout way. She twisted back to Regulus, a hard look in her eye. Regulus’s quill came to a halt. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I was testy this morning, because—well—I realized my brother’s an idiot.”

Regulus snorted. He put down his quill and looked at Grace. “Why do you say that?”

Grace’s voice dropped to a shadow of a whisper. “It’s just that…James _hates_ Slytherins. He’s Gryffindor through and through. I’m pretty sure his first words were the Gryffindor motto.” Grace bit at the inside of her cheek. She twisted her eagle feather quill in her hands. “I just think that James might never speak to me if he finds out that I’ve been Sorted into Slytherin.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Regulus protested. “Sirius still talks to me. We see each other in the Great Hall.”

“But—” Grace dropped her quill. “Wait, you saw Sirius today?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Did you tell him about me?” Grace asked frantically. “You didn’t tell him I was Sorted into Slytherin, did you?”

“Well,” Regulus’s eyes dropped, “I wasn’t much for talking this morning. I was kind of upset.”

Grace let out a breath of relief. “Okay, good—and, sorry about that. Again. It’s been a tough day. I just don’t want to go to the Great Hall in case James sees me.”

Regulus struggled with something for a moment, and then let out, “It’s okay. Sirius says I come on a little too strong sometimes. I just—” he faltered, “—I dunno, I just want to have a friend like how Sirius has James.” His eyes widened slightly. “Not that you’re your brother, of course. I just mean, well, surely you’ve noticed how most of the Slytherins act?”

Grace’s gaze traveled from Gamp to Greengrass to the Rosier twins. “Oh, I’ve noticed,” she said dryly.

“Sirius and I have been around people like that all our lives.” Regulus fidgeted with his quill. “I wasn’t very surprised when Sirius was Sorted into Gryffindor. It made sense to me. He’s never been like the others. And when he went to Gryffindor and met your brother, he met _more_ people who weren’t like the others...and…. I suppose I just want to be friends with someone who isn’t like—” Regulus inclined his head towards the other Slytherins, “—you know.”

“I get it. I was kind of thinking the same thing. You don’t seem to act like most of the other Slytherins.”

Regulus shrugged. “I’ve been around Sirius for far too long.”

A comfortable silence washed over them. Binns continued to drone on in the background, but Grace didn’t care to hear what the old ghost had to say. She was too preoccupied with the boy in front of her. Regulus, she thought, was very much like her—in want of something his brother had.

“We should be friends,” Grace decided very quickly. “I think we could help each other. I can keep the other Slytherins away from you, and you can help me keep James from finding out I’ve been Sorted into Slytherin.”

Regulus’s smile grew wider. “Yeah, okay. But I haven’t really got any advice for your situation. Sirius didn’t give a rat’s tail when he was Sorted into Gryffindor. Mother sent him a Howler, but I don’t think he ever responded to it.”

“And,” Grace squinted at Regulus, “he doesn’t care you’ve been Sorted into Slytherin?”

“Of course not. Our whole family’s been in Slytherin. It was bound to happen.”

“Right…” Grace tapped her quill against her blank sheet of parchment. “Did you want to be in Gryffindor like him?”

Regulus’s eyes widened infinitesimally. “I—no, I—” he shook his head fiercely. “Slytherin is better.”

Grace’s brows furrowed. “Better?”

“I mean better for _me_.” He stopped, and then added hastily, “It’s not too bad, you know. Andy—she’s one of my cousins—she says that Slytherins are loyal and clever and passionate to a fault. It’s not necessarily bad.”

Grace shrugged. She wasn’t fully convinced on the subject, but she didn’t know too much about Slytherin to argue with Regulus about it.

“I suppose, but that won’t mean anything to James. He’ll just see the green and silver—” Grace’s hand ghosted over the crest stitched into her robes, “—and won’t think about what it might mean. What it _really_ means. James is just like that.”

“But Sirius—”

“Sirius _knows_ the person behind the House colors,” Grace said. “He’s been around Slytherins his whole life, like you said. This is unfamiliar territory for James.”

Regulus bit his bottom lip. “So you’re just going to avoid James for the rest of the year?”

Grace shrugged. She wasn’t quite sure what her overarching plan was going to be, but Regulus was certainly on the right track.

“You’re just never going to set foot into the Great Hall?” Regulus pressed on. “Wait—how are you going to _eat_? _Did_ you even eat?”

“Er—I was going to scrounge for some food after this class.” Grace nodded towards Binns, who had failed to notice that more than half the class was doing anything but listen to his lecture.

Regulus gaped at her. “ _How_? From _where_?”

Grace shrugged. “I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”

“You’re too late,” Regulus said immediately. “I’m already worrying.”

“Well, stop worrying about me. I promise you I’ll figure it out.” Grace glanced at Binns. “Why don’t you worry about _him_? Aren’t you going to take notes?” She glanced at his parchment; he had stopped halfway through one of Binns’s sentences.

“Why should I?” Regulus flipped open the textbook and stopped at the page about goblin rebellions. “He’s reading verbatim from the book.”

“You knew this the moment he started speaking, didn’t you?”

“It’s how the chapter _begins_. He couldn’t have been more obvious.”

Grace threw back her head. “Merlin’s beard, this class is so boring. How can a professor just read from a textbook for an hour and a half? How can a professor even be a _ghost_?”

“I don’t think there’s a rule that a professor can’t be a ghost.” Regulus thought about this for a moment. “I mean, technically, he was human once, right?”

“One would hope.” Grace paused and looked back at Binns, who seemed to be in his own little world. “How do you think he died?”

“What?”

“What if he died in a _duel_?” Grace’s eyes grew wide. “What if he was battling a famous sorcerer and he didn’t duck in time? And he came back as a ghost to haunt that guy who killed him? And then, after he finished his haunting, he decided to teach?”

Regulus glanced between Binns and Grace. “You’re telling me _that_ man—who seems like the most exciting thing that ever happened to him was the moment he first cracked open a book—died in a duel with a famous sorcerer?”

“Well—let’s ask him.” Grace’s hand shot up into the air.

Several students stopped chatting and stared at her. Binns continued to drone on, oblivious. After a minute of wriggling her hand in the air, Grace decided to cough violently to get his attention. Unfortunately, Binns didn’t seem to notice in the slightest.

“Put your hand down,” Regulus hissed. “What if he notices?”

“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it, Regulus?”

Regulus groaned, and threw his head onto the table.

After giving her hand a couple seconds’ rest, Grace thrust it into the air with renewed vigor. When it was apparent that either Binns was blind or was purposefully ignoring her hand, Grace decided to yell out, “Professor Binns?”

Binns stuttered to a stop, and his eyes dotted around the classroom before landing on Grace’s outstretched hand. “Er—yes, Miss Potter?”

Grace had no idea how Binns had managed to recall her name despite the fact they’d never met and he hadn’t done roll call, but decided this was a mystery for another day. “Professor, I was just wondering, how did you become a ghost?”

Half the class snickered. The other half rolled their eyes.

Binns stared at Grace, unimpressed. “The answer to that question is rather short, I’m afraid: I died.” With that, Binns picked up from where he left off in the textbook.

“Well, he’s technically right,” Grace said.

“Please don’t ever do that again,” Regulus pleaded.

“What? Ask a question?”

Regulus groaned again.

“I’m just going to take this moment here to tell you that my friendship is non-refundable.”

“Can I trade it for something else?”

“Like _what_?”

“Your silence?”

“Rude,” Grace noted.

“Sorry,” Regulus said immediately, and dropped his eyes to his piece of parchment.

Grace frowned and nudged him slightly. “No—I was just joking. It’s okay.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“Stop apologizing—”

“Sorry—” Regulus winced.

“Wow,” Grace laughed as Regulus cracked a smile. “I’m going to help you loosen up.”

“In exchange, can I help you study?”

“What makes you think I need help studying?”

“You didn’t know Binns was reading from the textbook and weren’t taking notes anyway?” Regulus pointed at her blank sheet of parchment. “Besides, we’ve probably got Charms tomorrow, and you’re a class behind.”

“Am I?” Grace pulled _A Concise Compilation of Flying Charms_ from her knapsack and slid it to Regulus. “Thanks for letting me borrow this, by the way. It was dead helpful. I think I’ve got the hang of the charm now.” She twirled her quill in her hands. “But, to be honest, I _do_ need your help with the Tickling Charm. Do you want to practice it later tonight?”

Regulus smiled.

* * *

Grace had never been more grateful for James’s blabbering than when she found the giant still-life of a bowl of fruit near the Hufflepuff basement. It had taken her roughly an hour to find the area. She had begun with trial and error, by systematically going through the ground floor of Hogwarts. When it became apparent she was going in circles, she ended up just following a couple of fifth-year Hufflepuffs from the Great Hall to their common room.

Grace had caught just a glimpse of it after they knocked on a barrel to gain entry. It seemed to be flooded with light even though it was in a cellar. Grace was only slightly jealous (why couldn’t the Slytherin common room get more lighting?) and immensely curious (how in Merlin’s name had they managed to host a rave in there?), but shook it off quickly. She had a more pressing matter at hand.

She looked up at the great painted bowl of fruit and reached a hand out to tickle the ripe green pear. It giggled instantly, and transformed into a large handle. Grace grasped the bar, pulled at it, and was instantly met with the sight of a whole new world.

The kitchens were very large—much larger than James had described—and, similar to the Hufflepuff common room, seemed to shine. The counters were sparkling, and the rows of brass pots and pans hung up about the walls gleamed. There was a fire roaring in the very back of the kitchens, flooding the entire place in a warm glow.

Grace stepped in and reveled in the warmth, breathing in the scent of cinnamon deeply. The portrait eased to a close behind her, and, immediately, a swarm of house-elves in tea-towel togas gathered around her like a puddle. They seemed sweet, and much younger than Grace’s own Dotty. They stared up at her with large eyes and larger smiles.

“Hello, Miss,” one said. She was a little smaller than the rest, with skin the color of a ripe plum. “Miss hungry?”

“We has pie, Miss!” another said. He snapped his fingers, and a whole tin of apple pie appeared in his hands.

Grace’s stomach rumbled appreciatively. “I’d really like some pie,” she said softly, and let the first house-elf press a fresh plate into her hands.

The other house-elf cut a slice and placed it gingerly onto her plate. A fork was magicked into the pie, and Grace picked it up and shoveled a large bite into her mouth. Her shoulders relaxed, and Grace closed her eyes briefly. The pie was warm and sweet, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg, and Grace wished she could just eat this for the rest of her life.

“Thanks so much,” Grace said, opening her eyes. “You’ve no idea how much I needed this.”

The house-elves nearest her went wild from the thanks.

“Of course, Miss,” the purple one said frantically. “You’re welcome, Miss.”

“What’re your names?” Grace asked curiously, popping another piece of pie into her mouth.

“I’m Pokey,” the purple one said proudly, sticking her chest out slightly. Grace noticed, for the first time, the Hogwarts crest embroidered onto the tea-towel.

“I’m Rakkle, Miss,” the one who handed her the pie said cheerily.

“Rilsy!” another one said.

“Zippy!”

More names came, and Grace was growing a bit anxious, because she had forgotten nearly all names after the fifth one. She was relieved when the first house-elf, Pokey, interrupted the chain and asked: “What’s Miss’s name?”

“Oh, I’m Grace.” Grace relaxed, and sat cross-legged on the floor. The house-elves moved around her, making room. “I’m a first-year.”

“Miss Grace must be clever,” Pokey said sagely. “Very little first-years find the kitchens.”

Grace shrugged. That wasn’t the case at all, was it? It was James who was the clever one, who had found out the location of the kitchens his first month into Hogwarts, who had talked Grace’s ear off during Christmas break about the army of house-elves who lived near the Hufflepuff Basement. Grace was just following his lead.

“More pie, Miss?” Rakkle asked, another slice already on its way to her plate.

She accepted it heartily. “Thanks, Rakkle.”

“Welcome, Miss,” Rakkle squeaked and scurried off.

The other house-elves continue to suggest other foods for Grace in the hopes she might thank them as well: roast beef, baked potatoes, custard, treacle tart. By the time ten minutes had passed, Grace found she had inadvertently arranged a small feast for herself. Piles of food were laid out for her in their own dishes. Grace scooped whatever seemed good onto a fresh plate, showered the house-elves with thanks, and then scooted in front of the hearth at the very back of the kitchens.

After Grace began eating, the house-elves slowly hastened off to their own tasks. A couple continued to stay, or left and came back, simply to ask how the food was, if Grace would like some more, or if Grace would prefer something else. If it was any other day, Grace would have snapped at the constant hovering. But, right now, Grace found comfort in the company. The warmth of the fire spread over her like a blanket, and the clanging of pots and pans and the shuffle of house-elves’ feet against the linoleum reminded Grace that she was not alone. She was at the start of her second night at Hogwarts, and this was the most welcome she had felt thus far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying the story!!


	5. Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace receives the world’s worst invite, is told to “behave normally,” and drinks some tea.

By the time it was Friday, Grace already had two papers and a project (of all things!) to do over the weekend. Merlin—James had talked endlessly about how fun Hogwarts was but never about the amount of work that was given. Although, the more she thought about it, the more Grace began to figure that James simply didn’t do the work assigned to him. It would certainly explain all the detentions.

Grace caught sight of Regulus coming out of the Great Hall and bounded up to him as soon as he turned the corner. “So, what’s first?”

Regulus jumped and put a hand to his heart. “Sweet Circe—could you at least stop sneaking up on me?”

“But it keeps you on your toes.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and pulled out a piece of parchment from his knapsack. He handed it to Grace. “There, I snagged you an extra one this time.”

It was today’s timetable. Grace grabbed it greedily, hazel eyes roving over it. She wrinkled her nose as soon as she caught sight of the first class—Double Potions—but brightened when she saw that after lunch was Charms and Flying.

“Look!” Grace said, thrusting the paper in front of Regulus’s face. “We’ve got Flying!”

“Yeah, I saw,” Regulus said, batting her arm. “I can’t wait to see what they teach here. Sirius wouldn’t tell me _anything_ about it when I asked. I reckon it’s because he wants it to be a surprise.”

“Hopefully,” Grace said. She tucked the schedule into her own bag. “Merlin, I can’t wait to be on a broomstick.”

“Me either. I haven’t played in forever.”

Grace whipped to Regulus. “ _You_ play Quidditch?”

“Of course I do.”

Grace took a good, proper look at Regulus—Regulus who woke up at the crack of dawn to get a head start on the day’s readings, who copied over the notes he had written in class so he could color-code them—and blinked in surprise. “Really? What position?”

Regulus shrugged. “Sirius says I’d make a good Seeker.”

She nodded in approval. “Yeah, I can see it: you’re small and slight—”

“I’m not _small_ —”

“It was a compliment,” Grace insisted. “Seekers are supposed to be small and slight.”

“Oh, sure.” Regulus rolled his eyes. “What position do you play?”

Grace bit the inside of her cheek. The problem was, of course, that she didn’t really play. But if she told Regulus that, then he would ask why, and that was a whole slew of problems she didn’t really have the time or desire to get into. Besides, even though they were friends now, she didn’t have to tell him _everything_. Grace ought to have one secret—just one—that she could call her own.

“I don’t really play,” Grace said, “but I like watching. Beaters are my favorite.”

Regulus screwed up his nose. “But they’re so violent.”

“Yeah—they’ve got the most interesting part, dealing with angry balls that move on their own. The Quaffle isn’t enchanted, and the Snitch just hides—”

“It doesn’t _hide_ ,” Regulus began, affronted. “It—”

“Runs away?”

“It maneuvers about the field! It makes the game more complex and interesting!”

“Sure, sure,” Grace said. “But don’t you think watching two angry balls being smacked around is much more riveting?”

“I guess,” Regulus frowned.

“Anyway,” Grace began, halting as she and Regulus reached the dungeons, “why’ve you led me down here? Did you forget something in your dormitory?”

“No, we’ve got Potions. It’s in the dungeons.”

“Oh, great, so we’re going to be here for three hours,” Grace groaned. “We ought to do something about this dungeon situation.”

“Like what?” Regulus asked, entering a classroom at the end of the corridor.

It looked to be less of a classroom and more a cell. The door wasn’t even a door; it was a large, padlocked gate. The room itself was large and dim, with a slight draft emanating from the floor. When Grace squinted up at the ceiling, she spotted quite a few rusty shackles.

“They should spruce it up,” Grace said, following Regulus to a workbench at the front of the classroom. “Get some better lighting, fix the draft, add some decor. We could start a petition.”

Regulus cocked his head and surveyed the classroom. “I kind of like it. It’s atmospheric.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a fossilized bat up there,” Grace said, pointing to the corner of the ceiling.

Regulus squinted. “No—no, I think that’s just a weird stain.”

“What about the rat droppings?”

“What rat— _ew_ —!” Regulus prodded the brown pellet on the edge of his desk with his quill, hoping it might fall over.

It didn’t. Grace laughed, picked it up, and ate it. Regulus stared at her with abject horror.

“It’s just a piece of chocolate frog I put there while you were staring at the ceiling,” Grace grinned, chewing happily. “Merlin, I would’ve thought you’d be used to this sort of thing by now, having grown up with Sirius.”

“What do you mean? Sirius wouldn’t scatter faux rat droppings around me,” Regulus grimaced. He took out a fresh roll of parchment and spread it out over his side of the desk.

“Wouldn’t he?” Grace questioned. She pulled the rest of her chocolate frog from the depths of her robe pockets and began eating it. “During Easter holiday, he sprayed a whole can of lemonade in James’s face.”

Regulus stared at Grace like she had just told him Sirius willingly drank poison. “What are you talking about? Sirius stayed at Hogwarts for Easter holiday. He owled us and said he had a project to work on.”

“Unless I hallucinated for the whole of Easter holiday, Sirius definitely came over to our cottage and tormented James with a week’s worth of pranks.” Grace frowned. “Wait—did he—”

“Ah, finally!” a merry voice boomed from the front of the classroom.

Grace and Regulus twisted their heads to the front. A portly man with balding grey hair waddled into the Potions classroom. He was terribly short, with a belly so round that it strained against the fastenings of his mustard yellow robes. His eyes were small and hidden well under a pair of bushy brows. He glanced about the class greedily, landing on the Rosier twins.

“Ah—Mr. and Miss Rosier,” he greeted. “I just saw your father at the Ministry gala in late August. How is he doing? Still well, I hope?”

Myrcella Rosier flashed a smile so sickly sweet that Grace wanted to gag. “Wonderful, Professor. He asked that we thank you for the fairy-dusted tarts.”

He beamed, and moved on to the next student.

“Who is that?” Grace whispered to Regulus.

“Slughorn—our Head of House.” Regulus then let out a worldly sigh. “You know, you’d know all this if you’d just start eating at the Great Hall. He passes out our schedules this morning.”

“You _know_ I’m not going to do that.”

“Ah, and here we have Mr. Black and…” Slughorn paused as his eyes searched the roll call, “...Miss Potter.” Slughorn’s voice lost that cheery quality to it, and he looked, for a moment, faintly terrified. He cleared his throat rapidly, beady eyes glancing between Grace and Regulus. “I hope you two behave appropriately today.”

Regulus looked absolutely mortified as Slughorn moved on from their table to the next. He turned to Grace. “Do you think he thinks that—that—”

“That we’re like our brothers?” Grace eyed the old man carefully. He was stopped by a Gryffindor whose aunt was apparently the head of some large broomstick manufacturing company. “Yeah, probably. I mean, Slughorn’s Head of Slytherin, as you said. Don’t you think Sirius and James have traumatized him by now?”

“Oh, no,” Regulus moaned. “I’m going to fail this class.”

“No, you’re not,” Grace said, nudging him. “Come on, we’ll make a good impression. He’ll see that you, at least, aren’t a troublemaker.”

“I was really hoping my charisma would carry me through this class—” Grace snorted at this, “—because I’m not very good at potions. It’s the stirring that gets me. I get caught up in it, and suddenly three stirs becomes twenty….”

“So you just thought you could flatter Slughorn into giving you a good grade?”

“Of course I did! Look at him,” Regulus hissed. “We’re ten minutes into class and he’s _still_ weeding out the students with Ministry connections and wealthy families from the ones without. It’s so obvious he just plays favorites.”

“You’ve got a point,” Grace granted. She rolled up her sleeves and pulled out her Potions textbook. “But, really, don’t worry—”

“Too late.”

“If there’s at least one class Grace Sylvia Potter has got in the bag, it’s Potions. We Potters didn’t quadruple our fortune on Sleekeazy’s for no reason.”

Regulus furrowed his brows. “Sirius told me your brother’s dead awful at Potions.”

Grace shrugged. “I’m eighty-five to ninety percent sure he was dropped on his head as an infant.”

“Shall we commence the class?” Slughorn said, toddling back to the front of the class. “Since we’ve got quite the long class, I thought I’d try to make today interesting. We’ll be brewing the Forgetfulness Potion. I’m hopeful the effect of this particular potion is fairly obvious to you all.” Slughorn raised one bushy brow as he surveyed the class. “At the end of class, I will allow those who have successfully brewed the potion entry into my exclusive Slug Club. I’m assuming this rather tantalizing reward will incentivize you to take an interest in today’s class.”

Grace was fairly certain that Slughorn already knew exactly which students he wanted to invite into his club.

“Can we botch the potion a little?” Grace asked Regulus after Slughorn gave a cursory explanation of the Forgetfulness Potion.

“What? No! Why in Salazar’s name would you ever want to do such a thing?”

“Because I really, _really_ don’t want to be invited into his dreadful Slug Club.” Grace’s eyes wavered to Slughorn, who was chatting once more with the Rosier twins. “Especially not if he’s inviting the Rosiers, too.”

“You won’t have to go. I promise,” Regulus said with heavy exasperation. His finger was trailing down the list of ingredients. “Okay, we’re going to need Lethe River Water, Valerian sprigs, and mistletoe berries.”

Grace collected the items and set to work on the potion. It wasn’t that Grace had very much experience in the field. It was just that she had watched her father more closely when she was little and he hadn’t yet sold Sleekeazy’s. James always found potioneering a bit too slow for his taste; he preferred things to be quick and rushed. But Grace had found the process—or, rather, watching the process—very relaxing. It was quite soothing, really, sprinkling ingredients in every couple of minutes, giving the cauldron the odd stir now and again, watching the colors shift and change.

After about ten minutes (and after screaming in Regulus’s ear when he nearly added an extra Valerian sprig), Grace found herself looking down contentedly at a translucent, whitish mixture that was on simmer.

“Now what?” Regulus asked, staring at it. His reflection was visible on the surface of the potion.

“Er—” Grace glanced at the textbook, “—it says we’ve got to wait forty-five to sixty minutes. It’s probably best to wait the full hour. Dad always says the longer it brews, the more potency it extracts from the ingredients.”

Regulus glanced at the grandfather clock pushed hastily near the large wall of potions ingredients. He noted down the time and slouched in his seat.

“So, we just wait now?”

“I suppose.” Grace glanced at Slughorn. He was still chatting to a couple of students, so Grace turned back to Regulus and relaxed in her own seat. “Do you want to talk about how Sirius totally lied to you and your family and came over to ours for Easter holiday?”

“No,” he said sourly. “I can understand lying to Mother and Father, but I can’t believe he didn’t even tell _me_.”

Grace shrugged. “I think it was an impromptu thing.”

“He didn’t even _mention_ it,” Regulus scowled. “I mean how do you not even _mention_ something like that—” Regulus cut himself off and frantically straightened himself up in his chair as Slughorn approached their cauldron.

Slughorn eyed Regulus suspiciously before leaning over and taking a hesitant peek at the contents of the cauldron. When it was apparent the cauldron was not filled with Dungbombs or fireworks, a steady smile worked its way across Slughorn’s face, although the depth and breadth of it was hidden by his enormous mustache.

“It appears I’ve underestimated your proclivity for Potions,” Slughorn chortled.

“Thanks, Professor,” Regulus said immediately. “But it’s really Grace that…er...that….”

He trailed off as he caught sight of Grace’s murderous glare. She absolutely did not want Regulus touting off her talents, increasing the likelihood of her receiving a blasted invitation to Slughorn’s blasted club.

“Oh, but of course Miss Potter has an innate talent for brewing!” Slughorn picked up readily. “Did you know, my dear, that one of your very distant ancestors invented the Pepper-Up Potion? And, of course, with your father’s cosmetic innovations—you’ve clearly inherited that trademark Potter gift for potioneering!”

“Er—sure,” Grace said.

Slughorn seemed absolutely besides himself with joy. One might have thought that Grace had just told him that she was starting her very own Potions company and he would be getting fifty percent of all profits.

“I’m delighted that the talent hasn’t gone wasted on you,” Slughorn said. “Your brother, on the other hand….”

Grace narrowed her eyes at Slughorn. “He’s better at Transfiguration.”

Slughorn’s eyes widened. “Oh, but of course, but of course. We each have our own skills, don’t we?” It was clear Slughorn didn’t think Transfiguration was a very good skill, but Grace didn’t think now was the time to debate about that. “You know, my dear, your brother was asking about you just this morning—”

“ _Wha_ —” Grace began, but Regulus kicked her under the desk, and she masked the outburst into a cough.

Slughorn didn’t seem to notice in the slightest. “Yes, he was asking if I’d seen you at all, how you were settling in. Quite strange, if you ask me, although...I must admit I had no idea you were in my own House until today’s class, Miss Potter.”

“Er—right—” Grace said, scrambling for some excuse about why Slughorn had seen neither head nor tail of her, “—you see, I don’t really go to the Great Hall for breakfast. I always head to the—er—library—” Regulus snorted besides her, “—in the morning. To do some reading. Extra studying.”

Slughorn looked like he might cry tears of joy if Grace went on. “Quite right, quite right,” he murmured. “I can see you’re a hard-working one. Like your father, I daresay. Five points for Slytherin.”

Grace’s jaw dropped. Five points for _what_ exactly? All she’d done was nod and lie throughout this whole conversation.

“Thanks, Professor…?” she said, watching Slughorn hum to himself merrily as he went to check up on the next pair of students. She whipped to Regulus as soon he was out of earshot. “ _James_ talked to him?”

“First of all, calm down,” Regulus said immediately. “Slughorn just said that he didn’t know you were in Slytherin until he came down to class, so he probably just told your brother to bugger off.”

That eased some of the panic. “You’re right,” Grace breathed. “Yeah—Slughorn probably thought James was just being daft. There’s no reason for James to think I’m in Slytherin.”

“Right,” Regulus agreed. He was biting his lip. “But...I’ve got to tell you something.”

Panic eased itself back into her heart. “What?” Grace asked. “Oh, no—you think he asked another professor?”

“No, no—it’s just that...well, I forgot to tell you that after breakfast today, Sirius came to chat with me at the Slytherin table, which I thought was weird because we usually talk near the Ravenclaw table. But _then_ I realized he was looking around, so I asked him what he was looking for. And he asked me if I’d seen _you_.”

Grace’s hazel eyes were wide. “Well? What did you tell him?”

“First of all, you’re _so_ lucky there’s another Grace in Slytherin, because I wouldn’t have lied to Sirius...although now I’m wondering if I _can_ lie to Sirius since he so clearly has—”

“ _Regulus_ ,” Grace hissed. “What did you say to him?”

“I said, ‘Grace is right there,’ and I pointed to fourth-year Grace Higgins and then bolted.” Regulus frowned. “I wonder if he thinks I’m hiding something from him now.”

Grace let out a sigh of relief. “Okay, good. So there’s no reason for James _or_ Sirius to think I’m in Slytherin.”

“Right,” Regulus, but he was shifting in his chair and wasn’t quite making eye contact with Grace.

Grace pursed her lips. “What is it?”

“It’s just that...if they’re asking Slughorn and checking the Slytherin table, then don’t you think they at least suspect?”

Grace’s mouth snapped shut. She racked her brains for another explanation, anything that didn’t confirm her very worst fear: “Well, James probably asked Slughorn, because he’s the only professor he could weasel information out of, right? I mean, look at him—a bit of flattery, and he’s practically putty in your hands. And Sirius probably asked _you_ because...well...you’re likely the only first-year Sirius knows.”

Regulus weighed this in his head. “Don’t you think Sirius could have just asked a first-year in his own House instead of coming all the way to me?”

“Come on, do you honestly think, as a second-year, Sirius would waste time befriending first-years to find out where his mate’s sister is?”

“No,” Regulus admitted. “But now that you’ve phrased it all like this....”

“What?”

“Well, if James _was_ asking Slughorn just to get intel and Sirius came to me just to get a first-year perspective, then that means they’re getting kind of desperate, right?”

“What’re you getting at?”

“Now, I don’t really know about _your_ brother but when _my_ brother gets frustrated trying to search for something he can’t find, he usually starts marching up and down the stairs screaming about it and ends up upturning a four-poster bed.”

“Not surprisingly, James has a similar process.” Grace frowned. “Do you think they’re going to make a scene trying to find me in the Great Hall?”

Regulus shrugged. “Maybe.”

Grace chewed at her lip thoughtfully. “Okay, I’m going to need you to do me a favor.”

“What?”

“I’m going to figure out a way to transfigure your hair so it looks like mine—”

“I’m _not_ doing this favor for you.”

“You haven’t even heard it all yet!”

“I’m not going to pretend I’m you so I can distract our brothers from creating a ruckus in the Great Hall. What if someone finds out it’s me? What if a professor catches me? What if I get detention?”

“What—from playing dress-up?” Grace said incredulously. “Surely that’s not breaking any rules.”

“Why can’t you just—I dunno—change the house colors of your robe and zip in and out of the Great Hall? Linger long enough so they’ve seen you, but get out before anyone can stop you?”

“Hmm,” Grace said, considering it. “I hate to admit it...but this might be a better plan than my own. Do you think you could transfigure my robes?”

Regulus gaped at her. “I wasn’t being serious! You absolutely shouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous? Because it’s a waste of time? Because it’ll probably only embolden our brothers into continuing this weird game of hide-and-seek you’ve started?” Regulus rattled off.

“Joke’s on you, Regulus, because I love doing ridiculous things and wasting time.” Grace brightened. “Maybe I can find an older student to transfigure my robes for me. Oh, you’ve got a cousin in Slytherin, right? She was a Prefect! She can probably transfigure my robe colors.”

“Yeah, but...you wouldn’t want Narcissa to do it.”

“Why not?”

“She—” Regulus struggled with something, “—she’ll ask _why_ you’d want to have Gryffindor colors, and then she’ll start thinking you’re not good company—”

“Not good company?” Grace protested. “Why would she start thinking that?”

“It’s complicated,” was all the explanation Regulus offered.

“Is she like…” Grace inclined her head towards the Rosier twins.

“Yeah,” Regulus said, crestfallen. “Normally, I wouldn’t really care what she thought, but she tattles.”

Grace patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t worry, we’ll find another student.” Regulus opened his mouth to protest the plan further, but Grace hastily added, “By the way, we’ve got to add the berries to the potion now. Why don’t you crush them?”

Grace watched Regulus crush the mistletoe berries with a hawk’s eye. She added them to the bubbling mixture carefully and then stirred the cauldron five times, anticlockwise. She made Regulus cast the memory charm over the potion, which was the final step, because he had an aptitude for Charms that she simply did not possess. By the time they were done, class was nearly at a close and their potion was the perfect, pale color the textbook said it should be.

Slughorn beamed as he passed by their cauldron. “Ah, wonderful work—as expected, of course.”

Grace wondered if he had forgotten the fact that he entered the class thinking they would turn out to be troublemakers.

“Here you are,” Slughorn said, reaching into the depths of his robes and pulling out two thick invitations. He handed one to each of them. “I expect to see you next weekend. I’ll be getting a lovely shipment from Honeydukes, so, rest assured, you’ll have something to snack on.”

Slughorn waddled along, and Grace stared at the invitation in her hands with mounting disgust. It was eggshell colored and had a silver fleur-de-lis pattern running along the border. In neat script across the center, it said: _The Slug Club’s first-year get-together will be hosted on 9/13, Saturday, in Prof. Slughorn’s office_.

“Have you got a shredder?” Grace asked as she stuffed the invite into her knapsack and got up.

“Maybe we should go,” Regulus said thoughtfully. “It might be fun.”

Grace watched Slughorn enthusiastically hand the Rosier twins invites. “I think I’ll pass.” Grace shouldered her bag. “We’ve got lunch now, right?”

“Yeah.” Regulus cleared up the workbench and gathered his own things. “Where do you go off to eat, by the way? You haven’t fainted from lack of nutrition yet, so I’m assuming you’re getting food somehow.” Regulus paled suddenly. “Tell me you’re not eating our scraps.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “I’m not eating your scraps.”

“Then what?”

Grace gave Regulus a sly smile. “Do you want me to show you?”

Regulus narrowed her eyes at her. “If I say yes, will I be breaking any school rules?”

“Maybe.”

* * *

It took nearly fifteen minutes for Grace to convince Regulus that _yes_ , she was joking, and _no_ , it wouldn’t be hazardous to Regulus’s health or career to accompany her for lunch.

“What is this place?” Regulus asked as they reached a mound of barrels piled haphazardly around the sealed Hufflepuff common room.

“Those are the Hufflepuff barrels,” Grace said matter-of-factly.

“The _what_?”

“They’ve got some sort of enchantment that hides the Hufflepuff common room. I haven’t figured it out yet, but you’ve got to knock on a certain barrel with a certain pattern.” Grace frowned. “I tried tapping on all of them to the tune of ‘Hexes and Jinxes’ by the Hobgoblins, but it didn’t work.”

“That might be because the Hobgoblins didn’t release that song when Helga Hufflepuff enchanted the barrels.”

“Maybe you’re on to something,” Grace said. She stopped in front of the portrait of the bowl of fruit and gestured at it. “So, this is where I’ve been eating.”

Regulus stared up at the painting with scrutinizing eyes. “Does this lead somewhere?”

“Yup,” Grace said. She leaned forward and tickled the pear, which laughed and promptly turned into a door handle.

Grace opened the portrait door and was met with the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of house-elves preparing lunch for the Hogwarts students that were directly above them. There were great platters of Cumberland sausages, tins of shepherd’s pie, and massive plates of roasted potatoes and string beans piled along the counters. House-elves were running from here to there, adding last touches, before snapping their fingers and magicking the finished dishes away.

“Sweet Circe,” Regulus breathed, stepping into the kitchens. “Wait— _this_ is how we get meals? House-elves send them up to the Great Hall?”

“Yeah,” Grace said, wading amongst the pool of house-elves. They greeted her happily. “What’d you think? There was some poor sod down here cooking everything?”

Regulus opened his mouth, closed his mouth, and then opened it again. “I—I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting this for sure.” He gazed sadly at the house-elves. “I feel sort of bad for them. Are they just stuck down here all the time?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Grace said lightheartedly. “They go all about the castle—doing laundry, dusting rooms. Plus, Dumbledore treats them really well. Pokey was telling me that they’re all offered some time off. Not that any of them actually want it.”

“Who’s Pokey?”

Grace scanned the kitchens and beamed as she spotted the purple house-elf. “That’s Pokey! Hi, Pokey!”

Pokey’s wide eyes grew larger as she turned towards Grace. “Miss Grace!” the young house-elf squeaked, scurrying over. “Is Miss Grace hungry?”

“Always. Could I have the usual?”

Pokey nodded enthusiastically. Her large eyes fell on Regulus. “Miss Grace’s friend hungry?”

“Er—yeah—” Regulus flustered, “—I’ll just have what she’s having?”

Pokey snapped her fingers and two plates of apple pie appeared in both student’s hands. “Pokey must finish treacle tart now, Miss.”

“Okay,” Grace said brightly, heading towards the hearth. “Thanks, Pokey! I’ll see you later.”

Pokey beamed and returned back to her station.

Regulus followed Grace towards her spot by the hearth, frowning down at his plate. “Have you just been eating pie all day long? What about vegetables?”

“I get round to it eventually,” Grace said, taking a bite of the warm pie. “I just like starting with this. It’s sort of become tradition.”

“You’ve only been here for a couple of days,” Regulus said but conceded. He took a bite of his own pie and sat down, cross-legged, next to Grace. “So are you really just never going to go to the Great Hall?”

“Yeah.”

Regulus frowned. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about your whole plan. Do you really think your brother’s going to mind if you’re in Slytherin? At the very least, I think maybe Sirius would talk some sense into him if he’s upset.”

“I’d just rather not risk it at all, Regulus.”

“But there’s so much you’re missing at the Great Hall!” Regulus said. “Like—how’re you supposed to get mail if you never go up there?”

“You could collect it for me?” Grace suggested.

Regulus sighed. “I just don’t think it’s possible to keep this up. I mean—sure—we could do the transfigure-your-clothes plan, but I feel like, eventually, you’re going to go into the Great Hall and see James. Might as well cut to the chase and do it now.”

“That’s definitely not going to happen. You know why?”

“Why?”

“I’m planning on never seeing James for the rest of the year,” Grace said primly, stabbing her fork into the apple pie. “I’m going to just eat here from now on. Besides, what’s the point of going to the Great Hall at all? Socializing? I see all my friends in my classes, which is fine. _And_ since we all have the same classes, I can just follow you lot around instead of getting schedules. You know what? I bet I could keep this up for _more_ than a year. I can probably get through Hogwarts without seeing James _once_.”

“Grace—”

“No, you’re right,” Grace deflated, chewing on her pie glumly. “I can stay back here for Christmas and Easter break, but I’ve got to go home for summer eventually. I guess I could go to my cousin’s, or a friend’s. But even then...once I choose electives, my schedule changes, so I would _have_ to show up to breakfast to get my schedule—”

“Er—Grace—”

“Yes, you’re a genius!” Grace perked up. “ _You_ could choose the same electives as me. Or I’ll choose the same ones as you; that’s more fair. And then _you_ can just tell me what my schedule is, because it’ll be the same as yours! Yes, that’s it—”

“Grace,” Regulus cut in, “I don’t think you’re going to manage this for more than a month let alone a year.”

Grace looked at him stonily. “Oh, yeah? Watch me.”

“I mean that the professors are _bound_ to notice. Dumbledore was looking at the Slytherin table an awful lot today—”

“So what? He’s probably wondering why there are so many gits in our House.” Grace looked at Regulus solemnly. “Merlin knows I wonder the same thing every morning.”

Regulus paid her no mind. “I think he’s noticed that you haven’t set foot in the Great Hall since you arrived here.”

“Why would Albus Dumbledore—who has probably got a million important things to worry about—notice _my_ absence from the hundreds of Slytherin students in the Great Hall?”

“First of all, there aren’t _hundreds_ of Slytherin students,” Regulus pointed out. “Something you would know if you had ever set foot in the Great Hall. Second, I think he’s noticed because he greeted you separately, remember? You arrived later to Hogwarts, and had to do your Sorting in his office. You’re probably the first person from our year he’s spoken to face-to-face. Why wouldn’t he wonder where you’ve gone?”

An uneasy feeling settled in Grace’s stomach, but she battled it off. “Well, unless it’s some kind of rule that I _have_ to be in the Great Hall for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I don’t think Dumbledore is going to pull me aside and ask me where I’ve been.”

“What if he tells Slughorn?”

Grace snorted. “What’s Slughorn going to do? Flatter me into going to the Great Hall?”

“Well—well—” Regulus was running out of reasons, “—what about your parents?”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “What about them?”

“Well—your brother’s bound to tell your parents eventually, right? And if you never go home, your parents are definitely bound to come looking for you.”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

Regulus let out an exasperated sigh. “This is ridiculous! You know, I bet your brother already knows you’ve been Sorted into Slytherin—”

Grace shushed him. “Are you insane?” she whisper-shouted. “Don’t go shouting it to the whole world!”

“Shouting it— _what_? You’re _literally_ wearing the House colors right now!”

“Seeing and hearing are two very different things. If someone _saw_ me in Slytherin robes, I could spin any number of tales to justify why: one, a house-elf mixed up my laundry with someone else’s; two, I’m trying to infiltrate the Slytherin common room for a prank; three, someone dared me—”

“Merlin’s hairy wart,” Regulus muttered. “You know what? I see why you were Sorted into Slytherin.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re ambitious,” Regulus granted. “ _Too_ ambitious. Ambitious to the point where you seem insane.”

“I’m _not_ insane,” Grace bit out. “I’m trying to prevent my family from falling apart!”

“How? By disappearing from it completely?”

“Can’t we just try this plan of mine? We don’t even need to do the transfigure-my-clothes part. I kind of don’t want to do it anyway, because what if James manages to corner me?” Grace frowned. “I just don’t want to see James, or have him see me—not yet, at least.”

“I guess...” Regulus said. “But I’m beginning to think the best plan might be to not have a plan at all. You should just go to the Great Hall like a normal student. You don’t have to talk to your brother. Just behave _normally_.”

Grace finished off the last of her pie. “This is normal—for me at least.”

“Of course it is,” Regulus sighed.

* * *

Charms went by without a hitch, except for the fact that Regulus kept peppering their conversation with platitudes about how his new “behave normally” plan was really the best course of action. By the time they left the classroom, Grace had heard the word “normal” so many times it was beginning to sound like it wasn’t a real word.

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Grace said as they approached the Quidditch fields. “I’ll _consider_ going to the Great Hall for breakfast tomorrow. Happy?”

“Not particularly,” Regulus sniffed, “because I know you won’t consider it.”

“If you know that, then why are you still pestering me about it?”

“Wild optimism?”

“Regulus, I swear to Circe’s serpent that if you keep bringing this up I’ll ram into you with a broomstick. I promise you I will. I’ve already done it to your brother.”

“Sirius played _Quidditch_ with you during Easter holiday?” Regulus said shrilly. “Merlin—is he living some sort of double life? I’ve got to talk to him—”

“You can’t!” Grace cut in immediately. “You can’t talk to him about this, because then he’ll ask how you found out and then you’ve got to tell him about me. So, you absolutely cannot talk to him about this.”

“But what if he’s been lying to me about other things?” Regulus said bitterly. His eyes grew round. “What if he does it again this year and Mother asks me about it? I can’t lie to Mother!”

Regulus looked absolutely terrified by the prospect. Grace sighed and gave him a pat on the back. “Why don’t we deal with that _if_ Sirius does it again? We don’t know if he will, so there’s no point in worrying about it now.”

“But—”

“Now—come on—no more dour, sour Regulus, okay?” Grace said, nudging him. She spread her arms wide as they walked onto the Quidditch training field. “We’re going to spend the next hour and a half shooting across the sky, and I absolutely refuse to ruin it by talking about Sirius, of all people.”

Grace was grinning. The Quidditch training field was level with a wide expanse of the greenest grass she’d ever seen. It was crisp with just the right amount of leftover morning dew clinging to each blade. The sun shone cheerily onto the pitch, lighting the faces of the Gryffindor and Slytherin students who were steadily making their way to the grim Flying instructor—Madam Hooch, if Grace recalled correctly.

“This is going to be _wicked_ ,” Grace breathed. “We can actually show off in this class, you know? And no one will think anything of it. We can zoom up all the way over there—” Grace pointed to the Quidditch stands in the distance, “—do barrel rolls and what all else. Oh—what if Hooch decides to release the Snitch? You can practice catching it!”  

By the end of her little speech, Regulus was grinning—or as close to grinning as he got. He never really smiled fully. It was the same soft smile he always gave Grace: thoroughly heartfelt but light and faint enough to disappear in an instant. It was a precious, fickle thing.

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Regulus said. His grey eyes were gleaming.

Grace’s heart was soaring. She had been looking forward to this day for as long as she could remember. She wasn’t allowed on brooms any longer, thanks to that one Romanian Healer, so Quidditch and flying were out of the question at home. But here, at Hogwarts, the sky was the limit. Grace would finally feel the wind in her air once more, the satisfying swell of her heart when the broom jumped into her hand.

There were thirty or so broomsticks laid out across the training field. Regulus and Grace found a couple of nice Cleansweeps and stood next to them. The Slytherins and Gryffindors naturally aligned themselves opposite each other.

After the last of the stragglers had chosen a spot, Hooch started forward. She was clutching a letter in her hand. Her yellowish eyes flew over the students. She cleared her throat and asked, “Potter, Grace?”

Grace’s lips twisted into a slight grimace. “Yes?”

Hooch approached Grace. “Hello, Miss Potter. I’ve just received a note from a student telling me that the Headmaster requests your immediate presence. The password is ‘pumpkin pasty.’” Hooch waved the piece of parchment in her gloved right hand. “Unfortunately, this means you’ll miss our introductory lesson. But, hopefully, you’ll be able to catch up next week.”

Grace’s heart deflated like a balloon that had been struck by a needle. “Are you sure? Couldn’t I see the Headmaster _after_ class?”

Hooch fixed Grace with a stern frown. “Miss Potter, the Headmaster has requested you meet him _immediately_. It might be something urgent. I assure you, the brooms can wait.”

“Alright.” Grace swallowed thickly and turned to Regulus. He looked rather worried, although Grace couldn’t image what for. She shrugged at him and began heading away from the gaggle of first-years.

She had no idea what Dumbledore might want, except, of course—

Grace’s eyes widened and her shoulders tightened. Could Regulus be right? Could Dumbledore have noticed her absence from the Great Hall? Was pulling her out of the first flying lesson of the year his way of telling her to stop?

Grace bit her lip nervously as she traced the steps to the gargoyle that guarded the stairs to Dumbledore’s office. She stopped just shy of the enchanted stone, still deep in thought. What if she just never went to Dumbledore? What if she just went back to Hooch, told her it was a mistake, and then later told Dumbledore that Hooch never conveyed his message to her?

“Are you just going to stand there all day?” the gargoyle grumbled. Its voice was grating.

“Do you think I’m in trouble?” Grace asked. The gargoyle sat outside Dumbledore’s office all day long. It ought to know what he’s up to.

“How am I supposed to know?” the gargoyle snapped. “Do you have the password or not?”

“Pumpkin pasty,” Grace sighed in defeat, and the gargoyle moved aside to reveal a set of spiraling stairs. Resigned, Grace began to climb them in an excruciatingly slow manner.

“Ah, Miss Potter,” Dumbledore said when Grace’s head just peeked up from the stairs. He watched her slow ascent curiously. When at last Grace appeared in the doorframe, Dumbledore gestured for her to take a seat. “I apologize for the abrupt meeting, but I have had a lot of my plate recently, and I only just recalled the additional set of stipulations your parents owled me.”

Part of Grace was immensely relieved. So this wasn’t about her hiding from the Great Hall. But part of Grace was paranoid nonetheless. _Additional set of stipulations_? What in Merlin’s name did that mean?

“Oh, okay,” was all Grace said, sitting opposite to Dumbledore.

She looked about the office. It looked very much the same since she saw it last, except the gilded perch on top of Dumbledore’s desk was missing its occupant: Fawkes the phoenix. Grace’s heart hammered against her chest. There could be a million and one reasons why Fawkes wasn’t there, of course. The bird could be out delivering an important message on Dumbledore’s behalf, or perhaps the phoenix was sick and was being looked after somewhere. But Grace could not help but think that the phoenix’s absence, coupled with Dumbledore’s talk of “additional stipulations,” meant that Dumbledore was finally caught up to speed with Grace’s exhaustive list of restrictions.

And, true to her train of thought, Dumbledore said: “Your parents have asked that you not be allowed any pets, but you did not bring any, so I assume you’re well aware of this. I suppose they were worried you may try to adopt one while here.”

“No, I’m not allowed any.” Grace frowned. “There was this Romanian Healer, you see, and he thinks my paroxysm might be triggered by animals. Which doesn’t really make sense, but he’s a Healer and I’m not, so I suppose Mum and Dad trust him more.”

“He is the expert,” Dumbledore agreed. “They also asked that prolonged exposure to pets—say, owls—be kept to a minimum. Of course, this poses a problem as all owls come through the Great Hall.” Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes peered down at her, and Grace got the distinct impression she was being scolded for something. “It appears, however, that you have not yet had a chance to see this.”

“Right,” Grace said. Her mouth had gone dry and her hands were clammy. “Yeah—well—you see, I don’t really go to the Great Hall for breakfast. I’ve been going to the library for—er—extra reading. Thought I’d—” Grace found herself sinking further and further into her chair. She wished she could disappear into it completely. “I thought I’d try to get a leg up on my studies.”

Unlike Slughorn, Dumbledore didn’t seem to believe her in the slightest. “I see,” he hummed. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “In any case, your parents were worried about having you interact with owls, so they have been sending your letters to me.”

Grace wished the floor could open up and swallow her whole. Her cheeks warmed. “Oh.”

Dumbledore fished out a thick packet of letters from his desk drawer. He handed them to Grace. There were at least ten letters in the packet, which Grace felt was just a little overzealous. She’d only been at Hogwarts for about four days.

“Thanks,” she croaked out, cradling the letters in her lap.

“From now on, the house-elves will be delivering any letters and packages straight to your bedside table. As for the owls in the Great Hall, there is not much we can do about that, but your primary Healer said it should not pose much of a risk.” Dumbledore raised a brow. “Although, I suppose it wouldn’t be much a risk at all, seeing as you spend your mornings in the library.”

“Erm—yeah,” Grace nodded.

“Second on your parent’s list was a reminder about weekly check-ups. I informed them you had yours when you first arrived. I’ve decided Madam Pomfrey will keep them up to date with your check-ups henceforth.”

“Okay.”

“Lastly, is, of course, the matter of flying lessons—”

Grace’s eyes snapped to Dumbledore. She realized, of course, this would be coming up. She realized the moment Dumbledore began with this sodding list that the issue of flying and broomsticks would be coming up. But this realization did nothing to soften the blow or ease the upset.

“—now, according to your parents, the stress of the paroxysm may be increased with prolonged exposure to heavily enchanted items, such as broomsticks—”

“ _No_ ,” Grace wailed. “I thought they would have _forgotten_.”

Dumbledore peered at a sullen Grace bemusedly. “I’m afraid your parents have—quite thoughtfully—remembered everything.”

Grace knew the wizened wizard before her was trying to make her understand that her parents were doing this because they _cared_ , but all she could really think about in the moment were all the other first-years on the Quidditch pitch. She was going to miss a whole year of flying lessons at Hogwarts from a _professional_. Not only that, she likely wouldn’t be allowed to try out for the Quidditch team, either.

“So,” Grace said somberly, “do I just have a free period now?”

“No, that won’t do at all!” Dumbledore said lightly. “You ought to have something you can pass the time with, Miss Potter. Otherwise, all you will end up doing is thinking about what you are missing instead of what you have.”

“What should I do, then?” Grace asked, silently hoping that Dumbledore wouldn’t have her sort timetables or organize textbooks for some professor.

“In circumstances like this, I allow students to partake in an extra class. It will not count toward your grades, of course, as the electives we offer are for third-years and above. But it will give you insight into the subject of your choice, and you will have a leg up on your peers when the time comes.”

“ _Any_ extra class?” Grace clarified. “Any of the classes Hogwarts offers?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Muggle Studies has been a rather popular one this year.”

Grace wasn’t necessarily opposed to Muggle Studies, but she figured it might be an awful lot like History of Magic, which was the very definition of boring. It would be best to stay on the safe side and take something that was guaranteed to be fun. But the other subjects she knew about—Arithmancy and Ancient Runes—sounded even _more_ boring than History of Magic.

Grace chewed on her lip in thought until it hit her. She ought to take what Ollivander said her wand was good at: “What about Divination?”

“Divination?” Dumbledore repeated. “Why, yes, Professor Vablatsky has a Divination class at this time. However, it is for seventh-year N.E.W.T. students.”

Grace’s shoulders sunk. “So I can’t take that?”

Dumbledore smiled gently at her. “Not at all, Miss Potter. I am simply notifying you that it is a seventh-year class. Professor Vablatsky would be pleased to have a first-year sit in, and I am sure you would have fun. At this level, the class becomes less about theory and more about practice.”

Grace brightened up. “So I can do this instead of flying lessons?”

Nothing could really compare to the joy and thrill of flying, but if Grace _had_ to choose something else to do, it might as well be Divination. At least she could rile people up by predicting their deaths.

“Most certainly. And I suggest you get a move on. The class began five minutes ago.” Dumbledore wrote down something on a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it to Grace. “Please give this to Professor Vablatsky so she isn’t completely shocked when you walk into the class. Although...part of me wonders if she already knows.”

Grace didn’t think this was likely. After all, if a Seer had Seen this coming, then wouldn’t they have _already_ told Dumbledore about it?

Grace dropped her packet of letters into her knapsack and rose from her chair, clutching Dumbledore’s note tightly in her hands. “Thanks, sir. Where’s the classroom?”

“In the North Tower. On the seventh floor, there is a spiral staircase. At the very top, there should be a ladder leading to a trap door. Professor Vablatsky conducts her classes in there.”

Grace stared at Dumbledore for a moment. Tower, then spiral stairs, then ladder, then trap door? Was Vablatsky trying to hide from the rest of the school?

“Er—okay,” Grace said, gathering her things. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Miss Potter.”

With that, Grace bounded down the stairs and out of the Headmaster’s office. She was glad she hadn’t gotten into any trouble but was still upset by her parent’s interference. She flew up the spiral staircase, thoughts circling around the flying class she was missing and what seventh-years in Divination would be like. She hoped that Regulus was still having fun but found herself disliking the idea of him having fun without her. She hoped the seventh-years would be nice and welcoming, but...well, they were _seventh-years_. They might not like having a first-year butt into their high-level class.

Grace reached the ladder—a spindly, silver thing—in the North Tower that led to the Divination classroom. She climbed it quickly and pushed open the trapdoor, peeking into the room. There were only eight people in the class.

“Ah, and this must be the guest Mr. Khan predicted,” a croaky voice said. “Welcome, dear.”

Grace climbed into the classroom, note clasped tightly in hand. The room was much more cramped than she had expected. She’d thought a Divination classroom would be large and open, with large windows and an endless supply of sunlight streaming through. But, instead, this classroom looked like a shoddy attic. Scratch that—it _was_ a shoddy attic. Circular desks were huddled together across the poor expanse of space. Stacks of teacups, tarot cards, and crystal balls were arranged in cramped shelves in the back. There were arrays of dazzling, shimmering curtains strung from the roof, adding a sorely needed pop of color.

Grace surveyed the seventh-years in the room. They didn’t seem the least bit impressed to see a first-year crawl through the trapdoor.

“Hello,” Grace said, turning to Professor Vablatsky, who seemed even older than Dumbledore, if that was at all possible. Her skin was wrinkled and saggy, and thin strands of white hair peeked from under her green and red floral turban. Her eyes were a foggy white-blue, and they seemed to peer into Grace’s very soul. “Er—I have this for you from Dumbledore.”

Grace thrust the note to Professor Vablatsky, who opened it carefully. Her eyes sped over it, and then she threw the note into the wastebasket. She clapped her hands together, drawing Grace’s attention to the numerous rings and bangles she wore.

“I’ve been waiting for you since last year,” Vablatsky said sagely. “Although I thought you would be older. But, no matter! Now the issue is seating. I suppose groups of three will have to do—”

Nearly everyone in the class sighed at this news. Two students in particular—Gryffindors, with matching red hair and freckles—threw back their heads and groaned in annoyance.

“Professor?” a tall boy near the front of the class spoke. He had an upturned nose, slick dark hair, and a sneer that confirmed (along with the color of his robes) that he was a member of Slytherin. “Are you suggesting that this first-year is joining our class…?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Avery. It wasn’t a suggestion.” Vablatsky said. “There’s nothing subjective about this. Miss Potter _is_ joining the class. Now, I suggest you all rearrange yourselves into groups of three—”

Students picked themselves up and began to wander to another table. The red-haired Gryffindors plucked a boy from the next table over and forcefully brought him over to their own table. The sneering boy took the remaining member into his own group.

Vablatsky turned to Grace. “Why don’t you find a group, dear?”

“Me?” Grace said, staring at the old witch.

What seventh-year would be willing to take on a first-year? It seemed the class had, more or less, already made the decision for Grace. The red-haired Gryffindors had already taken that dark-haired, tanned boy, and the sneering Slytherin had speedily formed his own group. There were only two remaining students in the class, and they were seated near the corner of the class, at a table that was pushed up against a bookshelf that was so overloaded it looked that it might topple at any second.

At the table was a Slytherin girl with thick brown hair and a strong jaw. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her dark eyes were looking stonily ahead at Vablatsky. It didn’t seem like she wanted Grace to join her group at all. But her partner, a Hufflepuff boy with untidy fair hair and light eyes, found Grace’s eyes and he smiled gently at her.

Grace padded over to them. “Hi,” she said, sticking out her hand between both of them. “I’m Grace Potter. Could I join your group?”

The boy took her hand and gave it a firm shake. His smile turned into a broad grin. “Sure, Grace Potter, grab a chair.”

Grace took the nearest one, and scooted between the duo. In the middle of the table was a porcelain tea set. “What’re your names?”

“I’m Ted Tonks,” the boy said, still smiling. “That’s Andromeda Black. Don’t mind her; she’s just sleep-deprived.”

“Sod off,” Andromeda grumbled.

Grace’s eyes lit up at the mention of Andromeda’s name. She was about to open her mouth and ask if the older Slytherin knew Regulus, if she was related to him, but then she realized: What if this Andromeda Black _was_ related to Regulus, but she was like “other Slytherins”? Like how his cousin, Narcissa, was?

Grace bit back her question, settling, instead, on stealing furtive glances at Andromeda. The girl seemed entirely off-putting, what with the crossed arms and stony glare, and Grace felt it was entirely within the realm of reason for her to think Grace wasn’t “good company.”

“Come on, Dromeda,” Ted said cheerily. “Is that how you’re going to welcome our new group member?”

Andromeda rolled her eyes. She shifted in the chair slightly, and her eyes moved from Vablatsky to Grace. She squinted at the Slytherin crest on Grace’s robes but didn’t say anything.

“Dumbledore really is off his rocker,” Andromeda muttered, turning away. “Assigning a first-year to N.E.W.T. Divination.”

“I chose it,” Grace said, defending Dumbledore. “I can’t take Flying, so he said I could choose another class to take. The other electives sounded boring. Besides, my wand is supposed to be good for Divination.” Grace pulled her silver lime wand from her pocket.

Ted clucked his tongue. “Sorry, kid, but I’m afraid you won’t really be using your wand in this class. It’s mostly just going to be—”

“Since it’s our first class back together, I thought we’d do something relaxing,” Vablatsky called out. She had found herself back to the front of class. “And what’s more relaxing than some good, old-fashioned tessomancy? As you can see, the tea is already prepared. As you make your predictions, remember to take notes so you can share your findings next class.” Vablatsky clapped her hands again. “Begin!”

Ted reached for a teacup. “It’s mostly just stuff like this,” he said, picking up where he left off. “No wands necessary.”

Grace frowned. “Then why did Ollivander say my wand was good for Divination? If Divination doesn’t require wands?”

“Because he’s off his rocker, too?” Andromeda suggested. She passed Grace a cup of tea. “Just enjoy an easy class for what it is and don’t fret about wands.”

Grace took a long sip of her tea and nearly spat it out. She pushed the cup back onto the table and wrinkled her nose. “Merlin’s hairy wart—this is rubbish!”

Ted set down his own cup and laughed. “Well, you’re not wrong. It’s Vablatsky’s own concoction. It’s supposed to help the tea leaves settle or something like that.”

“It’s a little suspicious,” Andromeda said, sipping her own tea, “that she won’t tell us what she puts into this.”

“We’ve been drinking it for four years now, so I think it’s safe to assume it’s not poisoned,” Ted said.

Andromeda snorted at this, and her bad mood seemed to clear up slightly. “What about long-term effects?” Andromeda smiled, and her eyes were bright. “You know—my memory started going spotty around fifth year.”

“My memory’s been spotty since forever.”

Grace ignored their banter and reached for the tea set. She opened the sugar bowl and promptly dropped four sugar cubes into her tea cup, stirring the mixture vigorously. The bitter taste of the tea still stung her tongue.

“You know what?” Ted said, reaching for the sugar bowl as well. “That’s a swell idea.”

“Pass me some, too,” Andromeda said.

Grace took another sip of her tea. There was still a strange tangy aftertaste, but it was actually palatable now. Her hazel eyes drifted between Andromeda and Ted, who were both adding sugar cubes to their own cups.

“Been here for four years, we have,” Ted said, taking a sip of his improved tea and smiling appreciatively. “I can’t believe neither of us ever thought of doing this.”

“I’ll be honest,” Andromeda said. “I didn’t think that bowl actually had any sugar in it.”

“It’ll be good to have a firstie here,” Ted mused. “It grants us an advantage the others don’t have: a fresh perspective.”

Andromeda agreed with him. She turned to Grace. “Do you know Sirius? I think he might be friends with your brother, if you’ve got one. You said you were a Potter, didn’t you?”

Grace’s brows rose in surprise. “Yeah. I know Sirius. My brother, James—”

Andromeda snapped her fingers. “That’s his name! James.” She relaxed against her chair and took a long draught of tea. “Sirius went to your house for Easter holiday, right?”

“Er—yeah.” Grace stared at Andromeda.

Andromeda smiled, and it was a sly little thing. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

A million questions blossomed in Grace’s mind, but she didn’t know how to ask any of them or if they were even appropriate to ask someone she’d only just met. Why was the Black family so secretive and strange? Why did Sirius have to sneak away to the Potter cottage for Easter holiday? And why had he trusted Andromeda with this secret and not Regulus?

Grace swallowed down her questions and sipped at her tea. Her hazel eyes met Andromeda’s dark ones. “I think so, too.”


	6. Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace is nearing the end of her first two months at Hogwarts. Sure, she was off to a rocky start, but things ought to start looking up now—right?

“Your boyfriend’s staring at us,” Cresswell said flatly as he hastily copied down the physiology of Doxies from the copy of _How to Fight Fairies that Fight Back_ that Grace had hurriedly checked out before class.

“What—?” Grace twisted her head and saw Regulus watching their table stonily. Besides him, Gamp was rattling off yet another boring story about his childhood. “He’s just annoyed.”

“Why?” Cresswell scoffed. “S’not like I’d ever willingly want to sit with you.”

Grace scowled at him as she dutifully copied down the maneuver and effect of the Knockback Jinx, one of the few spells that could efficiently deal with Doxies. “Do you think I’m happy about this, too? If you hadn’t decided to waste the whole week doing whatever it is you Hufflepuffs do—which I’m convinced is just throwing parties all night long—we could’ve finished this project _ages_ ago.”

Grace hadn’t tried very hard in the beginning to catch a hold of Cresswell and get started on this damn project. But, as the week weaned on and the due date was edging closer, she began to panic. She’d searched every nook and cranny for Cresswell, but it was like he didn’t exist outside of DADA. She’d even tried breaking into the Hufflepuff common room. Honestly—if it wasn’t for the fact he seemed perfectly solid, Grace might have thought the boy was a ghost. As soon as DADA let out, he would disappear from sight almost instantly. How in Godric’s good name was she supposed to get a hold of him to complete their DADA project?

It was only by chance that the Slytherins were paired with Hufflepuffs for History of Magic today, which was right before DADA. After Regulus had shown Grace the timetable that morning, Grace rushed to the library, took out three books about Doxies and effective jinxes against dark creatures, and all but tackled Cresswell as soon as she saw him in the classroom.

“It’s better doing it like this,” Cresswell said after a moment. “Adds a bit of thrill, doesn’t it? Racing to finish before class ends?”

Grace ignored him and finished her concluding paragraph: _Doxies have twice the pair of legs we humans have, and so the Knockback Jinx affects them twice as much. It’s a simple and effective way to rid your household of any Doxies present. As for Doxy eggs—well, that’s what they invented Doxycide for._

She was almost certain that Regulus would scratch out her whole essay and have her start over if he ever read it. But Regulus was two desks over and would _never_  set eyes on this terrible, terrible essay if Grace had her way.

“I’m done,” Grace announced, setting down her parchment. She turned towards Cresswell’s paper and gaped. He wasn’t even halfway through the twelve-inch scroll! “Merlin—we’ve only got twenty minutes left, Cresswell!”

“It’s these blasted quills,” Cresswell said, throwing down his own quill and glaring darkly at it. “I’ll never understand why you lot are stuck in the Middle Ages—using quills and parchment.”

“What did you stop writing for?” Grace demanded. “Never mind the quill—just keep writing. If you make your handwriting a bit larger, you can probably fill in the rest and hopefully Sanderson won’t notice until after we do our presentation.”

“Hold on,” Cresswell grumbled, reaching for his bag.

He opened it up and started taking out a wide variety of objects—packets of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, papers with lines running through them in a grid formation, three brightly colored Sneakoscopes, and a book about goblins. Eventually he found what he was looking for—a thin rod with ink inside. Cresswell cleared his desk and began writing on the parchment with the rod.

“What’s that?” Grace asked, watching curiously. Cresswell’s speed had increased greatly due to the rod. He didn’t have to stop and dip it in the ink pot every few seconds due to the fact it already carried ink inside itself.

“It’s a pen,” Cresswell said shortly. “It’s better than a quill as far as I’m concerned.”

“Where can I get one?”

Cresswell stopped writing for a moment and squinted at her. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

He pressed pen back to parchment and resumed his essay. Cresswell was always saying things like this, and Grace was never sure if she was to take him seriously. Everything about him _seemed_ very serious—the perpetual furrow in his brow, his hard stare, the taut line of his lips—and yet everything he _said_ was utterly ridiculous.

Grace huffed and turned to the front of the class, where Binns was rattling off about some or the other troll war, as per usual. She raised her hand.

Binns didn’t even look up from his book, but he did let out a lengthy sigh and ask, “Yes, Miss Potter?”

The reactions in the class were mixed: some students groaned in annoyance, others watched on in glee.

“Why’s she got to do this _every time_ ,” Yang whined in the back row.

“Don’t complain,” a Hufflepuff tittered. “It’s the only entertainment we ever get in this class.”

“What are the circumstances in which you became a ghost?” Grace asked, framing the question as carefully as possible. She saw Regulus snort in the corner of her eye. “What exactly led to your death?”

“I was gravely injured,” Binns said imperiously, “as most people are when on the brink of death.”

Grace’s brows rose. This was new information. “And _how_ —”

“Miss Potter, if your next question doesn’t pertain in the slightest to Sir Elfric’s slaughter of a troll village in 1433, I will be forced to give you detention for disrupting class.”

Part of Grace felt like detention with Binns would be the perfect time to find out precisely how he died, but a greater part of her recoiled at the idea of spending an hour dusting shelves or filing away papers for the droning ghost. Her shoulders slumped in defeat and she waved her hand as if to say _carry on_.

Binns resumed his lecturing.

“You think you’ll ever get a straight answer out of him?” Cresswell asked. He was nearing the end of his parchment now, but his handwriting had gotten progressively larger and sloppier.

Grace shrugged. “I dunno, but I’ve got seven years to try.”

“You should ask him a real question one day, just for a laugh.”

“That would require me actually listening to what he’s saying.”

Cresswell glanced at her. “What do you mean? This class is the most interesting one we’ve got.”

Grace stared at him. “What do _you_ mean? If I spent this class actually listening to Binns drone on and on, I think I’d fall asleep like—” she gestured to the students in the back, who were all nodding off, “—they are.”

“You’ve just got to get past his voice,” Cresswell said. “The stuff Binns talks about is actually interesting. They’re like fairy tales—goblins and trolls and whatnot.”

“How are those fairy tales? There aren’t any fairies in them.”

Cresswell gave Grace a withering look. “You pure-bloods just live in your own world, don’t you?”

Grace frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cresswell penned his last sentence and relaxed against his seat. “Like—all this is just boring to you, isn’t it?”

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear that this class is the very definition of boring.”

“I mean _all_ of it: Potions and Transfiguration and Charms and what all else. It’s all just work for you, isn’t it?”

Grace pursed her lips. She wasn’t quite sure what Cresswell was getting at. She wanted to say “no,” because she figured she would come across better that way. But she couldn’t say “no,” because she didn’t know what “no” meant in this case. Of course the classes at Hogwarts were work. School was work. Why would Cresswell think it was anything else?

Cresswell didn’t wait for an answer. He drummed his fingers against the wood of the desk, light eyes wavering about the class. “You’ve grown up around this your whole life, probably, so you know it all. This is normal to you. But it’s not to me, because I never knew any of this existed before this year. So of course whatever Binns is saying is interesting—can you imagine, in the backdrop of human wars there were troll wars going on? That’s insane!”

Grace shifted in her seat. She supposed Cresswell had a point, but she still didn’t know what to say. His perspective on History of Magic didn’t lessen how boring it seemed to her. If anything, it just made her feel a bit guilty.

“I think you’re just obsessed with history,” she said after a moment.

Cresswell rolled his eyes. “And I think you’re a snob.”

“Hey!” Grace said, affronted. “I’m not a _snob_ —”

“Your quill is from an _eagle_ ,” Cresswell pointed out.

Grace hastily hid the large quill within the pages of her library book. “Fine—give me a pen, then!”

“Have you got a hundred Galleons on you?”

Grace’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “A hundred—what—pens cost _that_ much? If they’re so expensive, aren’t you rich by Muggle standards? Wouldn’t _you_ be the snob?”

Cresswell snorted. “You pure-bloods really do live in your own world.”

* * *

“I wish they’d stop staring,” Grace whispered to Regulus as they left Transfiguration.

Many of the first-year Slytherins were not-so-subtly watching Grace leave and head up for Divination. It hadn’t taken them long to realize that Grace Potter wasn’t showing to _any_ of the Flying classes, and it had taken them even less time to find out that she was taking a high-level Divination class instead. There were a multitude of rumors spreading within Slytherin now, and all of them were some variation of Grace being a powerful Seer.

Only Regulus knew the truth—or some version of the truth. Grace had told him that her parents were too afraid to let her fly after she fell off a broomstick and broke her arm the day before term started. And since she could no longer go to Flying, Dumbledore had offered to let her sit in on any class of her choosing. It wasn’t a _complete_ lie, just as it wasn’t a complete truth, so Grace didn’t feel very bad about it.

“I thought you said you didn’t mind it?” Regulus said as he followed Grace towards the North Tower. N.E.W.T. Divination started fifteen minutes earlier than Flying, so Regulus usually spent the time walking Grace to Divination. It was quite nice, if Grace were being honest, because the North Tower was nearly deserted at this time, so there weren’t any prattling Slytherins nearby.

“I said I didn’t mind the _rumors_ ,” Grace corrected. “They’re quite nice, actually. But I don’t like having their beady little eyes trained on me.”

“Give it a few weeks,” Regulus suggested.

“It _has_ been a few weeks.”

“Well—give it some more weeks.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “And when that’s up, you’ll tell me to give them even _more_ weeks.”

“You’re not wrong.” A comfortable silence settled between them. It was only broken when they reached the set of spiral staircases and Regulus asked, “Are you going to come to the Great Hall after Divination?”

He asked the same question every Friday. Grace wondered if it was blind optimism or the comfort of the routine that led Regulus to ask this unfailingly.

“Nope,” Grace said cheerily. “I told you my plan was brilliant. We’re nearly done with October. I bet I’ve beaten some sort of record.”

“Record for not stepping foot into the Great Hall?” Regulus said disbelievingly. “ _Everyone_ steps in at least once—for the Sorting.”

“Then I suppose I’ve _set_ a record.”

“For managing to shamble along with a half-baked plan?”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You’re awful snippy today.”

“This is the seventh week you haven’t come down for a meal in the Great Hall. You do realize people have noticed, right?”

Grace shrugged. “Sod ‘em.”

“You’ve _got_ to come eventually,” Regulus pleaded. “Gamp keeps sitting next to me, and I don’t know how to get him to stop. Salazar—as if the conversation wasn’t bad enough, his breath is awful, too!”

“Tell him he’s a prat and you don’t sit next to prats,” Grace suggested.

“You know I can’t do that.” Regulus frowned. “Only _you_ say things like that, and that’s why I need you in the Great Hall. I’m a _prat magnet_ —” Grace let out a bark of a laugh as Regulus plowed on desperately, “—once Gamp sits besides me, he pulls in all the others: Wilkinson and Blishwick and—” Regulus shuddered, “—Yaxley.”

Grace clucked her tongue sympathetically. Yaxley was boorish as they come. He was constantly complaining about something or the other: the way the professor was teaching, the type of food served for breakfast, the crease of a student’s robes.

“And you’re a prat deterrent,” Regulus pressed on with stunning determination. “Once you enter the room, they all scatter! It’s really something, honestly. I’m not sure if they’re scared of you—”

“No,” Grace shook her head. She stopped just at the base of the spindly, silvery ladder that led to the Divination room. “They just don’t like me. I put a bad taste in their mouth.”

“Well, still,” Regulus continued, “that’s exactly what I need! You see, our energies cancel out, and we become invisible.”

“This was a truly riveting speech you’ve given me, Regulus,” Grace said appreciatively. Regulus huffed. “But I’m _not_ coming down to the Great Hall. Why don’t you just eat in the kitchens with me?”

“I only see Sirius at the ends of meals,” Regulus said. His eyes wavered to the silver ladder. “Are you going to go up now?”

“Yeah,” Grace said, turning towards the ladder. “Try not to worry too much about the others, yeah? You could try sitting next to Fuentes and Greengrass—” Regulus paled, “—they’re combative, so no one else is going to want to get in between them.”

“Then why in Merlin’s name would I ever sit next to them?” Regulus sighed woefully. “They’d turn my body to ash with a single glare.”

“Hey—if you’re ash, you won’t be able to smell Gamp’s bad breath.”

“You’re _intolerable_ ,” Regulus moaned.

“Like a certain someone’s breath?” Grace laughed as Regulus’s sour expression soured more. “C’mon,” Grace nudged him, “at least you’ve got Flying. You don’t have to be near _anyone_ then. And dinner only really lasts forty-five minutes since you spend the last fifteen catching up with Sirius. And _then_ , I’ll be back to being your deterrent in—erm—what do you want to do after dinner?”

“Can we go to the library?”

“Regulus, today is Friday.”

“Hornby said that the library ordered in the fifth issue of _The Miraculous Mage_.” Regulus’s eyes brightened. “I wanted to snag it before someone else did.”

“Can’t you just order your own copy? I’m pretty sure I’ve got a Flourish & Blotts catalogue in my room somewhere.”

The gleam in Regulus’s eyes faded instantly, and his shoulders slumped. “I can’t. Mother said she wouldn’t buy me anymore because they’re for children.”

“But you are—ugh—nevermind.” Grace sighed. She didn’t know Regulus’s mother personally, but she was beginning to think she wouldn’t like the older woman. “Okay, sure, we can go to the library. I’ve got to return the Doxy books I took out this morning anyway. You know Cresswell didn’t even thank me for checking them out on his behalf?” Grace harrumphed. “The nerve!”

“Cresswell’s a bad influence.” Regulus gave Grace a dry look. “I heard he’s gotten detentions for loitering on the fourth floor at odd hours.”

“What do you want me to do about that?” Grace said. “It’s not like I chose him as my Defense partner.”

“I’m just saying,” Regulus said lightly.

“I doubt he’s _actually_ up to something. He puts out this strange, secretive aura, but I think it’s only to mask how rotten a student he is.” Grace put a hand on the ladder. “Anyway, I’d better head up and you’d better head to Flying. I’ll see you in the library later and—” Grace grinned teasingly, “—I’ll be your so-called prat deterrent there.”

Regulus barely reacted to her words. “Alright,” he said, and his voice was so low and mournful that Grace almost considered accompanying him to the Great Hall for dinner.

But she couldn’t. She’d made it this far without seeing James even _once_. She’d made it this far hiding her Slytherin identity from everyone but the professors and her fellow first-years. She couldn’t give in now, not even for Regulus. She’d make it up to him eventually, in some other way.

She gave him one final parting wave before climbing up the silver ladder and pulling herself through the trapdoor.

“—just cast the bloody thing already—”

“I can’t! I think she put some sort of ward on it—”

“What? No, she hasn’t! Give it here—”

“Oh, what? You can manage better, can you?”

It was the Prewetts—Fabian and Gideon. (Or was it Gideon and Fabian?) The red-haired twins were hunched over their table, muttering and casting spells on something Grace couldn’t quite see.

“What’re you doing?” Grace asked, strolling to her own table. She set her stuff down and poked the crystal ball that was set on the table curiously.

One of the Prewett twins looked up. His warm brown eyes caught sight of Grace and he grinned. “Ah, the firstie’s arrived—”

“Stop calling me that,” Grace said flatly, heading towards their table.

“But it’s what you are?” the other twin said. He was focused on the crystal ball placed on his table. His wand was pressed against the glass.

Grace rolled her eyes. “What’re you doing?” she repeated. “Have we moved on from the tea leaves?”

There was a hopeful lilt to her words. Tessomancy with Vablatsky was, in a word, torturous. There had been one day where the sugar bowl was empty and Grace had to force down that dastardly, vile concoction Vablatsky called black tea. She’d begun dumping out her tea in a plant potter ever since then.

“Of course we’ve moved on from tea leaves,” the first twin said. His words were sharper, so Grace assumed he was Fabian. Ted had told her he was the meaner twin. “There aren’t any teapots around, are there?”

Grace pursed her lips. “If you don’t tell me what you’re up to, I’m going to tell Vablatsky you tampered with her crystal balls.”

“Moved on to blackmail, have you?” Fabian gave an exaggerated shake of the head. “Typical Slytherin.”

Gideon looked up. “If you must know, we’re trying to charm these blasted things to give us visions.”

Grace’s lips twisted into a confused little frown. “What do you mean? Don’t you have visions normally?”

Fabian and Gideon glanced at each other and promptly burst out laughing.

“What?” Grace said crossly, folding her arms across her chest. She glared at the two of them. “You’re in N.E.W.T. Divination! Is it really so out there to assume you two can See?”

Fabian wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’m certain some of the others can See—or maybe _think_ they can See—but we certainly can’t.”

“We’ve gotten this far by rigging whatever it is that Vablatsky throws at us. Like, with the tea leaves,” Gideon started. “You were there through all that mess. It’s agony sitting there, staring at a wonky blob, trying to figure out if it’s an acorn or a cross. So we’ve charmed our cups so the leaves settle into a distinct shape. Vablatsky can’t question our interpretation if the leaves look _exactly_ like an acorn, can she?”

“I don’t understand,” Grace admitted after a moment. “Why does it matter at all? You can just pretend the blob is whatever you want it to be, can’t you?”

“We can’t, actually,” Fabian interjected, “because whatever we say has got to come true, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“It was going to be really easy, actually,” Gideon picked up. “Before you came along, the class was in pairs. We—” he gestured between Fabian and himself, “—were just going to pretend our predictions for each other came true.”

Fabian let out an almighty sigh. “But then we changed into threes, and now we’ve got Khan. So when we make predictions for him, we’ve got to have it be a set thing and then make it come true.”

“Acorns represent unexpected gold,” Gideon continued. “So we charmed his tea leaves to form into that shape, gave him our predictions, and two days later we scattered some Galleons in the hallway when he was heading back from the Prefect’s loo.”

“Alright,” Grace said slowly, wrapping her mind around all this. “But I don’t get why you’re trying to charm the crystal ball. Can’t you just make up something when you gaze into it and make it happen?”

Fabian and Gideon simply stared at Grace.

“What?” she said defensively.

“You really don’t have any idea how any of this works, do you?” Fabian said.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Grace bit out, “this is my first Divination class ever, so of course I don’t know how any of this works.”

Besides drinking tea these past few weeks, Grace had done very little. She’d left the actual predicting to Andromeda and Ted. They were both rather good at it. Once, Ted had predicted Grace would be awoken by a howler monkey. The very next morning, Grace had been startled awake by a shrieking Myrcella Rosier (she was convinced Colvin had taken her new hairbrush), whose screech was remarkably similar to that of the howler monkey.

Gideon shot his brother a look and said softly, “Crystal balls are a little...strange. They’re somewhat sentient, you see.” He tapped his wand against the ball, and the fog within curled away from it. “Have you ever wondered what exactly is in it?”

“Er—no,” Grace said. She’d honestly never seen a crystal ball in person till today.

“It’s a piece of the future.”

Grace’s brows shot up. “Isn’t the future...more of a concept? Not—” she pressed her own finger against the glass ball, “—gas?”

“It is a concept,” Gideon agreed. “I suppose ‘future’ was rather a broad word to use for this. What’s in the crystal ball is more like…the partition between now and later. What _exactly_ that partition is made of is a bit of a mystery, of course.”

“Rumor has it the Department of Mysteries has got a room filled with the stuff,” Fabian said, tapping the glass of the ball. The fog shrunk from his touch. “Supposedly they’ve got something that splits the living from the dead, too.”

Grace looked at him suspiciously. “And you know this...how?”

Fabian mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

“Anyway—” Gideon resumed tapping his wand against the crystal ball, “—seeing as these little buggers have got some form of conscious, any decent Seer can tell when they’re active. And, say what you will about Vablatsky—”

“She’s a nutter and almost definitely poisoning us with her tea,” Fabian muttered darkly.

“—but she _is_ the real deal. And we _still_ haven’t yet managed to figure out a way for crystal balls to issue visions—or at least make nice shapes for us.”

“Surely she won’t mind, right?” Grace said hesitantly. “If you try your best?”

Fabian snorted. “This is _N.E.W.T._ Divination, firstie—” Grace glared at him, “—we managed to bungle our way through the crystal ball phase last year, but if we don’t cobble something together now Vablatsky might just kick us out. And then we’ll have one less N.E.W.T., and dear old pop won’t be happy about that at all, will he, Gid?”

Gideon’s expression had soured. “No, he won’t—so help me out here, you git.”

Gideon threw his wand onto the table in frustration and Fabian took up the challenging task of charming the crystal ball. Fabian’s wand—a slender, light thing—tapped against the glass of the ball furiously, changing color at every touch.

“Ted told me Divination doesn’t require wands,” Grace said slowly.

Gideon glanced at Grace. “Well, I suppose if you’re actually a Seer, you don’t.”

“Why don’t you try using something other than your wands to rig the ball?” Grace suggested. “Like—I dunno—something that repels gas?”

She couldn’t think of any object that might be able to do that, but she was sure that two seventh-year Gryffindors must have come across something like that in their time here.

Gideon scratched at his red hair. His lips were twisted in thought. “Repel….” His eyes widened, and he knocked Fabian’s wand out of the way with his own.

“Oi!” Fabian said indignantly.

A warm white light emanated from the tip of Gideon’s wand. When he pressed it against the glass of the crystal ball, the fog within seemed to expand—growing thicker and puffier—and pressed against the glass eagerly. Gideon moved his wand towards the back of the ball, and the fog there shrunk into itself, trying to create as much distance as possible between itself and whatever spell Gideon was casting.

“Would you look at that,” he hummed. His eyes flickered to Fabian. “The future has magnetic properties—” he tapped his wand against the front of the ball again, and the fog grew once more, “—North pole and—” he brought the wand to the back, and the fog dwindled, “—South pole.”

“Blimey.” Fabian’s brows had flown so high that they were nearly at his hairline. “If it relies on a magnetic field and we tamper with that...Vablatsky would probably mistake the reaction for a genuine vision.”

“Yeah,” Gideon agreed. “But one of us has to cast the spell underneath the table.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Fabian’s hand skirted along the ridiculously long tablecloths.

“What are you _doing_?” a snide voice called out.

The Prewetts groaned simultaneously, and Grace turned to see Avery climbing up the trapdoor. Following him was the rest of his class: his two partners (a Gryffindor and Ravenclaw), Khan, Andromeda, and Ted.

The whitish glow at the end of Gideon’s wand went out instantly.

“Just showing our resident firstie how to cast a Lumos,” Fabian said, grinning.

Avery scoffed. “Surely you can’t be struggling with such a simple spell?”

Grace scowled at Fabian. He gave her an infuriating wink before pulling Gideon closer to him and whispering about precisely how they would be going about fooling Vablatsky. Khan looked at them suspiciously before cautiously setting down his things and pulling up a chair.

“Like you mastered every spell ever taught to you instantly, Avery,” Andromeda grumbled as she seated herself at her own table. “Have you forgotten that little mishap in first year? When you tried to cast Wingardium Leviosa and, somehow, managed to shatter every piece of glass in Flitwick’s classroom?”

Avery’s cheeks colored and he muttered something about Flitwick teaching the wrong technique before sitting down and burying his nose in the Divination textbook.

Grace went over to Andromeda and Ted, moving her knapsack off her chair so she could sit down. “Hi.”

“Hullo,” Ted said, as cheery and good-natured as ever. His smile was wide, but he looked rather tired today. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his right leg was jittery. Being a seventh-year was rather difficult, Grace supposed.

“Hello, Grace,” Andromeda said, voice weary. Her hair—normally sleek and curled—was frizzy and disheveled. The bags under her eyes were darker and more pronounced than Ted’s.

“Are you two—” Grace glanced between them, “—okay?”

Andromeda merely grunted in response.

“We spent the whole night finishing a demonstration for DADA,” Ted yawned. “God, what’d I do in my past life to deserve a professor like Sanderson? The amount of projects has been _killing_ us—”

“If he assigns us one more...” Andromeda threatened lowly.

“Oh, good,” Grace said, thumbing through the Divination textbook Ted had taken out. He let her look through it whenever they were doing exercises so Grace had an idea of what was happening. “So what he does in DADA isn’t normal.”

“Definitely not,” Ted said.

“Salazar, I miss Croakes,” Andromeda said. A wistful smile overtook her face. “Remember how he fell asleep during one lecture? Those were the good days….”

Ted hummed in agreement. His eyes flew over the class and landed on the Prewetts, who were still whispering to one another conspiratorially. Across from them was Khan, who was steadily inching his chair further and further away from the table. “Tell me those two aren’t planning something.”

“They said they were rigging the crystal ball,” Grace supplied helpfully.

Andromeda snorted. “Hope it doesn’t end in an explosion like last time.”

Grace’s eyes widened. She cast a worried look at the Prewetts. Surely messing with a magnetic field wouldn’t cause anything to combust?

“Oh,” Vablatsky said, stepping into the classroom from the backroom. She swung the curtains out of her way as she stepped further in, and the numerous bracelets on her wrists jingled merrily. “You’re all here rather early, aren’t you?”

“Class began five minutes ago, Professor,” Avery said boredly.

“Oh, dear, my clock must be broken,” Vablatsky murmured. “No matter. You’re all seated already, are you?” Her white-blue eyes surveyed the class. “Let’s not delay any longer. One at a time, gaze into the crystal ball situated at your table. Call out everything it is you see, if you are able. Your group members will write down everything you say. Sometimes it is better to have two accounts of what has been Seen instead of one. I will monitor your progress. Begin!”

“Okay.” Ted rubbed his hands together and leaned toward the ball as Grace pulled out some spare parchment. “Get ready for a torrent of visions!”

Grace glanced at Andromeda. “Do people actually get visions in class?”

“Supposedly,” Andromeda said. Ted peered intensely at the ball. “What really happens is that people start off naming shapes they see in the fog of the crystal ball. Usually, at least one or two students actually end up having a genuine vision.”

“I see a rabbit,” Ted said calmly, which Grace wrote down diligently.

“You mean this?” Andromeda said, tracing two puffs of fog within the glass that seemed like rabbit ears.

Grace crossed out ‘Ted saw a rabbit.’

After nearly ten minutes, Ted’s intense stare into the crystal ball didn’t lessen in the slightest. Grace had grown bored awaiting for his supposed ‘torrent of visions,’ so she began surveying the rest of the class. At the Prewetts’ table, it was Khan who was gazing; but, like Ted, he wasn’t saying anything. The Prewetts had long since given up writing notes. They were now tossing crumpled-up pieces of parchment back and forth in a game of catch.

The last group was Avery’s, who was the only person in the whole class that was actually talking. His voice was at a low murmur, and his group members’ hands were speeding across their parchment as they tried to record everything he said. Vablatsky had been peering over their shoulders for the last five minutes, reading everything they were writing. Grace wasn’t sure if the professor was pleased or concerned.

“Colors,” Ted said suddenly. “I’ve got colors.”

Andromeda perked up. “What colors?”

“I dunno—a lot.” Ted’s brows furrowed. “It looks like fur? Or maybe hair? It keeps changing colors—pink, red, yellow, pink, green, pink, purple, pink…. Pink’s a pretty frequent one.” Ted pulled his eyes away from the crystal ball, exhausted. “Does pink mean something?”

Andromeda didn’t answer him; she was still writing down the colors Ted had said. Grace, meanwhile, had given up after the second ‘pink.’

“Isn’t pink kind of universal for love?” Grace suggested. “Maybe someone’s going to fall in love with you?”

Ted’s cheeks reddened. “We’ll see.”

“Perhaps you fear inconstancy in a particular person,” Andromeda said, and she held Ted’s gaze for a long moment.

“No,” he said. His voice was very soft. “Definitely not that.”

“Or maybe you’re just going to get a really ugly, hairy rug,” Grace said, staring at the two of them. Had she missed something?

“Switch!” Vablatsky called, moving on to Khan’s table.

Andromeda tucked her messy curls behind her ears and leaned towards the ball. “Here goes nothing….”

Silence overtook the class again. Crystal gazing, Grace felt, was so boring that she was beginning to miss drinking Vablatsky’s awful tea. After twenty minutes had gone by and Andromeda hadn’t said a word, Grace began to doodle in her parchment. Ted snorted when he caught sight of her picture: Binns dying in a heroic duel against a wicked sorcerer.

“Bollocks!” someone shouted just as a loud bang and crash shook the classroom.

Grace almost jumped out of her chair. She turned towards the Prewetts’ table, where large pots and pans had flown out of the backroom and collided against their table, knocking it over. Their crystal ball lay on the floor, shattered. Gideon’s wand—which had been aloft for a split second—was hastily hidden under his robes.

Khan sighed heavily.

“I mean—” Giden started, glancing around the room, “—oh, what a shame. What a complete and unexplained surprise.”

“That was certainly unexpected, wasn’t it, Gid?” Fabian agreed.

“Oh, very much so.”

Stark silence met their words, and then, Vablatsky said: “I wouldn’t really say it was unexpected. You two pull some stunt like this every other month.” She didn’t press further and Gideon let out a great breath of relief.

Vablatsky waved her wand, and the shattered crystal ball vanished. Grace turned back to her own table, and found that Andromeda’s concentration hadn’t lifted in the slightest. She was still staring at the ball—eyes wide and glazed over.

“Two,” she said suddenly, and her voice was very low.

“What?” Grace said, and when she twisted towards Ted, she found that he had written the number down.

Within the next fifteen minutes, Andromeda had given them two more seemingly random numbers: six and eight. Grace traced them over and over in her parchment, trying to figure out what on earth it could possible mean. Two plus six plus eight was sixteen. Perhaps Andromeda was going to receive sixteen of something?

“She always gets numbers,” Ted whispered to Grace after he glanced down and saw arithmetic scribbled all over her sheet. “That’s why Vablatsky pulled her into the class; she thinks it’s interesting.”

“Does the fog just spell out numbers?” Grace asked.

“No—she said she actually does See something, but it goes away too fast for her to really make sense of what she saw. But, somehow, she’s got a number associated with it.” Ted grinned suddenly. “Last year, she said, ‘three, seven, one,’ and we had three days of snow, I got seven presents for Christmas, and—well, we’re not sure what the one was. There are too many things it could have been.”

“Switch!” Vablatsky called out once more. “This is the last turn. Turn in reports about what each of you saw and the potential significance of it based on your partners’ notes. If the visions fulfill themselves before the next class, include that as well.”

Andromeda blinked out of her daze and pushed the crystal ball away from herself. She slouched against her chair, looking more tired than she had been before.

Grace looked between Ted and Andromeda. “Should I…?”

“By all means,” Ted said, pushing the ball closer to Grace.

Grace chewed her lip. “Right, well—it’s just—I’ve never—”

“Ah, I was hoping I would get you,” Vablatsky said, coming to Grace’s table. Grace bit her lip harder. Was Vablatsky going to monitor Grace the _whole_ time? “Don’t worry too much about it, dear. Even a single glimpse is rare. Just relax your head, stare into the depths of the unknown—sometimes it helps to touch the unknown—” Vablatsky lifted Grace’s hands and placed them on the crystal ball, “—and let yourself go.”

Grace’s hands curved around the ball. After a few seconds of staring into the fog, the fog completely overwhelmed her. Grace felt the world grow smaller, or perhaps it only _seemed_ smaller because she was concentrating so hard on something so small? Or perhaps the world had become the small crystal ball? The seconds dragged into minutes at a painfully slow pace. Grace’s lids began to grow heavy. Her grip around the ball grew loose and slack. The fog was rich and thick and—above all else—very warm. It wasn’t anything Grace could feel, but she knew instinctively that it was warm, and she wanted very much to feel that warmth. She let out a small yawn, and closed her eyes just for a moment—just a little break….

Someone ripped Grace’s hands from the ball, and Grace started. “Huh—?”

Andromeda was smiling bemusedly. “You almost dozed off. It’s okay, it happens.”

“I myself have fallen asleep while gazing more than once,” Vablatsky agreed. The Seer glanced down at Grace, and quirked a brow at the sliver of silver peeking out of Grace’s pocket. “My dear, is that a silver lime wand?”

“Er—yes,” Grace said.

“Ah, why don’t you try that with the ball? It will help you focus.”

“Wand with ball?” Ted questioned. “That’s a thing we can do?”

“No, that’s a thing _she_ can do,” Vablatsky said smartly, looking at Grace. “Silver lime is unique in that it can channel the Sight. Raise the wand to the surface of the ball, and press against it—yes, good. Now, I want you to clear your head just as you did before, but this time, just close your eyes. Your wand will be the medium between the crystal ball and you.”

Grace’s eyes flickered to a close. She gripped her wand so tightly that her nails were beginning to dig into her palms. Grace found it much harder to clear her mind this time, because she was actively trying not to fall asleep. But, soon, she found her mind wandering.

Grace bit back a sigh as she waited for her time with the crystal ball to pass. It was becoming pitifully apparent that she was not going to have any visions anytime soon. She wished Dumbledore had talked her out of this, or at least warned her that a first-year with absolutely no experience or background in Divination would have a boring time. After all, everyone else except her seemed to have some idea of what they were doing.

Grace’s stomach grumbled, and her thoughts turned to dinner. She wondered what the house-elves were making in the basement of Hogwarts.

“Redcurrant chocolate,” Grace whispered, hoping that—somehow—her food cravings could pass a vision. “Roast beef, steamed broccoli, mashed potatoes. Shepherd’s pie. Treacle tart.”

With the last item, Grace broke her connection with the crystal ball. She looked up at Vablatsky sheepishly, hoping the Seer would let this pass as a vision.

But Vablatsky didn’t meet Grace’s gaze; she was looking directly at Grace’s crystal ball, her mouth slack. Grace followed her line of sight and saw, to her utter astonishment, that the fog within the ball was swirling like some furious cyclone.

“Is that supposed to happen?” Grace asked.

“I think it might be them,” Ted said, inclining his head towards the Prewett twins.

They had been given a new crystal ball. Fabian’s wand peeked out from under the tablecloth. It was facing Grace’s table and was emanating the same whitish glow from earlier. Gideon caught Grace’s eye and gave her a sly thumbs up.

Vablatsky turned towards the Prewetts’ table. Fabian’s wand vanished underneath the tablecloth instantly, and it seemed, for a moment, that they had gotten away with it. But then a set of metal teaspoons flew across the air, striking the new crystal ball at the Prewetts’ table. It promptly fell from its stand, collided against the wooden floor, and smashed into a hundred small fragments.

“Er—” Fabian stuffed his wand into his robes, “—would you look at that—”

“Wow,” Gideon whistled. “Who would’ve thought? Two in one day, eh?”

Khan cradled his head in his hands. “Working with you two is intolerable.”

“ _Watching_ you two is intolerable,” Avery muttered.

“Of course…” Vablatsky said under her breath. She moved back to the center of the classroom and clapped her hands together. The sound of rings clacking against rings resounded across the room. “Alas, our time together is now at an end. Don’t forget to prepare your reports for next week. And—” Vablatsky sighed deeply, “—Mr. and Mr. Prewett, I’ll see you in my office later tonight for detention?”

The twins didn’t seem at all perturbed by this. With a flick of his wrist, Gideon magicked away the shards of glass.

“Works for me,” Fabian shrugged. “Gid?”

“Sure—why not? I’m not doing anything special tonight.”

Grace picked up her bags and began to head out with Andromeda and Ted when Vablatsky said, “Miss Potter?”

“Er—yes?” Grace said, turning towards the aged Seer. She hoped Vablatsky wouldn’t reprimand her for trying to pass a menu as a genuine vision.

“Don’t lose heart,” Vablatsky said kindly. “You’ve got seven years to master the art.”

Grace opened her mouth and then closed it again, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, Avery saved her from having to say anything at all by thrusting his partners’ scrolls of parchment in front of Vablatsky’s face.

“Professor,” Avery began, “I was just wondering...”

“Come on,” Andromeda said, shepherding Grace out of the classroom. Ted followed close behind.

“Master it?” Grace said incredulously, twisting between the two older students. “She wants me to _master_ it?”

“Vablatsky has high hopes for certain students,” Ted said. “It’s the reason why N.E.W.T. Divination even exists. No one used to take it until Vablatsky came along, and that’s only because no one thought they were good enough. It turns out, nearly everyone can See, just in different ways.”

“Not me,” Grace said, following Ted and Andromeda down the ladder.

She hoped the Prewetts might eventually figure out a proper, shatterproof way of rigging crystal balls. She might need it in the future.

* * *

After Regulus got his hands on the fifth issue of _The Miraculous Mage_ , Grace dragged him back to the Slytherin common room and set up a game of Exploding Snap. The day grew dark as they sped through rounds, and Regulus only put a stop to the game when one of the cards nearly lit his cat’s tail on fire.

“Oh, fine,” Grace yawned, gathering the remaining cards. “I ought to head up and sleep anyway.”

Regulus was stroking Cliodna tenderly. “Yeah, I should, too. I want to get up early tomorrow and read the issue first thing.”

“You’re incorrigible, Regulus,” Grace said as they headed towards the dormitories. She stepped towards the left. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” he echoed, heading up the right.

Grace opened the door to the first-year dormitory slowly and found, to her relief, that all the hangings were closed except the ones around her own bed. She threw her pack of cards onto her trunk and flung herself onto her bed, frowning as she caught sight of her bedside table.

There were two new letters—one from Dad and one from Mum, Grace assumed. The two sent at least one letter each every day, if not more. Grace was beginning to think that all they did at the Potter cottage was pen letters all day long. If they kept this up, Grace would have ten novels’ worth of letters by the end of the school year.

Grace reached over and plucked the first of the two letters from the table. She broke the wax seal and was met with the sight of her father’s loopy handwriting: 

> _Darling Grace,_
> 
> _I’m glad to hear that you’ve been spending so much time in the library. Your studies are certainly important, but remember to take a break now and again and have some fun! During my time at Hogwarts, my mates and I would often climb to the top of the North Tower and throw stink pellets down at unsuspecting passersby. Now, your mother has told me I should expressly forbid you from doing such a thing, but, truth be told, it was a very relaxing activity. Watching the pellets explode into small puffs of noxious green gas reminded me of the fireworks that went off every New Year’s here at Godric’s Hollow. I’ll be sending you a packet of stink pellets with my next letter. Why don’t you give it a try? (Just don’t tell Mum.) I’ve told James to share his invisibility cloak with you, so you won’t run the risk of getting caught. He sent me a delightful little letter the other day. Apparently, he’d managed to sneak into the Ravenclaw tower with his cloak! Ah—but you’ve probably heard all about it…._

Grace tossed the letter aside, not bothering to finish reading it. A small frown began to overtake her face. Not all of her parent’s letters featured James, but a strong majority of them did—either in passing or with explicit instructions for Grace to talk to James about this or that.

Of course, Grace had never done anything of the sort. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. It twisted and turned, and Grace hated it. Her fear of James finding out that she had been Sorted into Slytherin had been replaced by a new one: Suppose James did know. Suppose he had found out after he asked Slughorn about her. Suppose he had known this whole while, since the very first day Grace had stepped foot in Hogwarts.

James hadn’t sought Grace out in any way, shape, or form. He was hovering about, certainly—asking Slughorn, pestering Sirius to ask his brother—but he hadn’t come to her directly, hadn’t sent her an owl, or cornered her outside a first-year class.

This new fear of Grace’s was stiff and heavy, and she felt it rattle around in her ribs every single day. She was beginning to think this terrible thought might sit with her for the rest of her life: James knew Grace had been Sorted into Slytherin, and he hated her for it. James knew, and he despised her so much for it that he couldn’t bear the sight of her.  

It wasn’t confirmed, of course. It was just a scenario—the worst possible one, yes, but a scenario nonetheless. And Grace didn’t want to reach out to James to get a definitive answer, either. She knew she was stuck in a strange place—between knowing and not knowing—but that was precisely where she wanted to be. Grace didn’t understand why people were so afraid of being stuck. Stuck was good. Stuck was safe. Stuck meant she didn’t have to move forward, meant she could stay a second before the storm for the rest of her life. She’d never have to hear James say all the things she was afraid he would. She’d never have to see that disappointment, feel that animosity.

Grace rubbed at her eyes and threw her head back against her pillow. Her eyes blinked open and she stared at the dark of her canopy, wincing as a throb overtook her temples. _Great_ , she thought scathingly. A headache would really just lull her to sleep, wouldn’t it?

Wait—

Grace sprang up, and bit back a groan as the throbbing in her head grew more persistent, more powerful. If she were at home, Grace would have tried to ignore the ache and go to sleep, but Grace wasn’t at home. She was at Hogwarts, and she didn’t want her dorm-mates to find her screaming in bed as fits overtook her.

Grace crept out of bed hurriedly and grabbed a jumper before heading out of the girls’ dormitory. It was the dead of night, so there were very few students about in the common room. No one paid her much mind as she sprinted out of the concealed stone passageway and up the stairs.

The pounding was growing unbearable. It was like her head was being squeezed by two great walls and there was only a matter of time before she buckled and gave to the pressure. Her body was moving without her mind, jumping ahead, stumbling up the stairs. Her eyes looked out wildly for the Hospital Wing, the only place that would be lit at this time of night.

Grace tried not to fight the oncoming paroxysm. She had to let it happen to her, because she knew Healer Kane was right. The more she fought it, the more it dragged on, the worse it got, the longer she would be stuck in the Hospital Wing, unable to be back in class.

But it was so very hard to resist fighting it. The mere thought of it happening to her—even though she was already on the cusp of it—was panic-inducing. It would have been easier to willingly fling herself over the edge of a cliff. To just sit back and let the tremors claim her body, let her body break under her, let her senses go blank, her mind go dark—it was terrifying. It was like asking Grace to part with her very soul, and who would give that up without a fight?

Grace’s breaths were coming out shorter and faster, and her heart was beating so fast it seemed to stumble every couple of seconds. She could just make out the wane light of the Hospital Wing flooding through open doors, and she ran towards it, grinding her teeth down.

“Madam Pomfrey—” Grace gasped when she was through the doors, and, somewhere in the distance, the matron heard.

“Miss Potter—!”

Grace felt the older woman’s hands catch her upper arms, and, at last, she released the tension in her bones, the stiffness of her shoulders, the clench in her jaw.

And when she let herself be taken by the paroxysm, the most curious thing happened. For the first time in her life, Grace’s vision didn’t go dark. She could see, with stunning clarity, the back wall of the Hospital Wing, and it was crumbling before her eyes. It was as though the fits that were wracking her body were wracking the whole of Hogwarts, too. The back wall—ancient and yellowed—broke down from the stress of it. Grace saw every new crack that grew and every fragmented piece that fell, and it was not until the whole of the wall toppled down into a heap of rubble that Grace finally slipped into the darkness.


	7. Linen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace receives some much needed comfort, nearly engages in a fistfight, and makes a friend in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this story so far! I kind of struggled with this chapter, since it's a bit more emotional than the others. Let me know what you think! :)

When Grace awoke, she felt like she had been trampled by a horde of elephants. Her head was clear as a summer’s day, but all the pounding and aching from before seemed to have transferred to her body. Every twitch was torturous, every breath labored.

Grace blinked awake, focusing on the candlelight on her bedside table. The flame flickered in the dim room, casting magnificent shadows across the dark green curtains that circled Grace’s hospital bed. She groaned in her bed as a particularly painful throb flashed through her, and shifted away from the dull light. She eased herself up a bit and rubbed her eyes. She had actually _given in_ last night, hadn’t she? Why did she feel so much worse because of it?

“Alright, darling?” a familiar, soft voice asked.

Grace shot up in bed, and winced at the suddenness of it. A gentle hand guided her shoulder back until she was resting on the hospital cot again. Grace blinked up wearily at her parents.

Mum was tired, with noticeably dark bags under her eyes. Her copper skin gleamed under the soft light of the candles, and her dark almond-shaped eyes watched Grace with infinite tenderness. She was leaning into a magically-conjured wicker chair, with a pillow under the nape of her neck. Dad was in a similar chair, right next to Mum, snoring away. His white hair was just as untidy as ever but seemed grey and shadowed in the dark. He was turned away from Grace, face pushed into his own pillow, leaning so far into his chair that it seemed that he might tip it over.

“Sorry,” Grace said, voice very small. She shrunk into her bed, trying very hard to hide the Slytherin crest that was sewn into her robes under the bunched up linen covers. “Did I wake you?”

Mum smoothed back Grace’s hair. Her palm pressed against Grace’s forehead briefly—cool and light as a breeze—and it was only then that Grace realized how _hot_ she felt. It was as though there was a wildfire somewhere in her chest, and the smoke was traveling through her bones. She was feverish and trembling, and every part of her ached.

“Don’t you worry about that.” Mum glanced dryly at Dad. “Let me just—” she said, and then stuck her foot against the steadiest leg of his chair, knocking it off kilter.

Dad jolted awake as his chair rattled furiously from the sudden lack of balance. He maneuvered himself just in time for it not to fall over, and leaned forward once he was steady, clutching his heart. “Merlin,” he whispered. “Should’ve conjured ourselves some leatherback armchairs, shouldn’t we have, Effie? Much more supportive— _dependable_ —”

“Monty,” Mum cut in impatiently. “Would you mind getting the matron? Grace is awake—”

Dad rose from the chair like a whip, and his face broke into a grin. “Ah—Gracie,” he said jovially, and leaned onto her bed, cradling her into a hug. “My darling girl—feeling better are you? Godric, the Patronus call gave us quite the scare—didn’t it, Effie? Heart nearly stopped in its tracks.” He pulled away, hazel eyes gleaming under the glow of the candles. Grace’s hands were curled near her chest, pulling the covers over her robes tightly. She smiled up at him weakly. “But of course we knew you’d fight through it—”

“ _Not fight, Monty_ ,” Mum hissed. “Don’t say _fight_. You know she’s not supposed to do that.”

“Er—right,” he said, scratching his head. “Not _fight_ fight, of course. I meant—well—pull through. We knew you’d pull through. Stronger than steel, you are.”

Her father’s words— _strong, strong, strong_ —never failed to pull Grace into a good mood following a paroxysm. But today—or tonight, judging from the darkness—his words fell short. It was Gryffindors who were strong—strong and brave and fierce as a lion, as she had been told—and Grace wasn’t one of those. She was something different, now, and didn’t want her parents to find out, didn’t want her Dad to think she was too weak for Gryffindor.

“Merlin’s beard,” Mum muttered, rising. She patted her pillow onto the back of the wicker chair. “Might as well get the matron myself.”

She left through a gap in the pulled curtains, not that Dad seemed to notice in the slightest. He was so caught up in the fact that Grace was awake one might have thought this was the first time Grace had ever come to following a paroxysm.

“Thanks, Dad,” she said.

“Look at you,” he said, boisterous grin (it looked like James’s, and the thought was enough to make Grace’s heart sink) fading into a soft smile. He sat himself into Mum’s chair, which was closer to Grace. “You only spent two days in bed.”

Grace’s brows shot up. “Really?” she said. “Really? Only two days?” Usually, she spent four days unconscious, three if she was lucky.

Dad nodded. “Oh, yes. Your mum and I were here for it—well, for most of it. We took shifts when it was time for meals. One of us would leave to gather some food while the other waited.” He tucked back loose strands of Grace’s dark, wild hair affectionately. “We didn’t want to not be there in case you woke up. Godric—that happened to me once, you know? Tumbled down from the Astronomy tower and damn near busted my head open. Bellchant—she was the matron back then—gave me some Skele-Gro so my skull could fuse back together. Somehow, I managed to sleep through the pain, but when I woke up, there wasn’t a person in sight.” Dad’s words had begun to droop. The enthusiastic edge was gone now; instead, the words were soft with a thread of desperation running through them. “It’s not much fun, lying in a dark, nearly-empty Hospital Wing, waiting for someone to show.” He pressed his knotted hand against the side of Grace’s face. “I never want you to feel anything like that, Gracie. You’ve got us—Godric’s Hollow, St. Mungo’s, Hogwarts, and wherever else. You’ve always got us.”

There was a fierce knot in the center of Grace’s throat. She thought that if she said anything at all, she might just burst into tears. She didn’t even know _what_ to say. She was partially afraid that the minute she opened her mouth, the words “ _I’m a Slytherin!_ ” might come hurtling out. The moment was so raw, so utterly devoid of pretense and pretend, that Grace felt the sudden urge to tell her father _everything_ —her Sorting, her avoidance of James, how unpleasant her dorm-mates were, how she had only one friend, how much she hated her paroxysm, how much she wished she wasn’t like this, wished she was anything else.

And as all these things bubbled at the base of her throat, threatening to spill out, the curtains parted. Madam Pomfrey stepped through with a bemused smile and a flask. Despite the fact that it must have been past midnight, the old matron looked just as crisp and tidy as ever; her grey-streaked hair was tucked neatly under her cap and her robes were pressed and stain-free. From the partition in the curtains, Grace caught a glimpse of the large windows on the opposite wall: the moon was full and bright, casting the whole of the Hospital Wing in a serene glow.

“You’ll send a memo to Healer Kane, won’t you?” Mum pressed, fluttering by Pomfrey’s side. “With your own notes, diagnostics. They’ve got a file, you see—”

“I assure you everything will be taken care of, Mrs. Potter,” Pomfrey said with only a slight trace of irritation. The witch withdrew her wand from her smock. A bluish light emanated from the end of it as she circled Grace’s head. Once she was satisfied, Pomfrey dropped her wand back into one of her many pockets and uncorked the flask in her hands. “Calming Draught, freshly brewed,” she said, passing it to Grace. “Now, I want you to drink the whole thing, and then get some rest. I highly suggest you sleep till morning.”

“But I just woke up,” Grace protested. The grip she had around the bottle was weak. It felt as heavy as a cinderblock.

“Darling,” Mum said, conjuring a new chair and settling on Grace’s other side so now both parents were as close as possible to Grace. “Madam Pomfrey is right. You ought to allow some time for your body to recuperate. Try to get at least a few hours of sleep.”

“Well put,” Pomfrey said before reaching over and grabbing onto Grace’s covers.

Grace didn’t let go, desperately holding the linen over the Slytherin robes she was wearing. “What’re you doing?” she said, alarmed. The flask was slipping in her other hand.

“What in Merlin’s name are _you_ doing?” Pomfrey said, grip slacking. She let go of the sheets and looked down at Grace crossly. “You’ve been tossing and turning and sweating into these covers for the better part of two days. It’s time they got in the wash. Don’t worry—I’ve got a freshly laundered set for you.”

“Er—no,” Grace said, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her hand trembled with the flask. “This is fine. You can change them tomorrow.”

Pomfrey blinked in surprise. “Well, if that’s what you prefer—”

Grace nodded anxiously. “Yes—yup—I’d really like that.”

“But surely you’d like to change out of those robes of yours?” To Grace’s utter horror, Pomfrey waved her wand and a fresh set of robes—complete with the Slytherin crest and green-and-silver tie—appeared in her hands. “You’ve been sleeping in them since Friday night. I think—”

“ _No_ ,” Grace cried out. The flask tipped out of her hands, and the draught spilled over her sheets, soaking into the fabric. She lunged forward and attempted to knock the robes out of Pomfrey’s hands.

“Gracie,” Dad said, startled. He intercepted her mad dash and eased her back onto her thoroughly soaked cot. “What in Godric’s good name has gotten into you?” He pressed a hand against her forehead and frowned, glancing up to Pomfrey. “She’s feeling rather hot. Have you got some Cool-Down Draught?”

Grace watched quietly, eyes wide, lips pressed into one thin, grim line, as Pomfrey passed the fresh set of robes to Mum. Mum’s hand pressed down on the crest and tie, eyes flickering between Grace to Dad and then back to Grace. Pomfrey went over Grace’s bed with her wand held out, siphoning away the spilled draught.

“Normally, I would say to wait at least an hour before administering another draught,” Pomfrey said rather dryly, “but seeing as you haven’t drunk the last one, I suppose I’ll give you a Cool-Down first and come back with another Calming Draught in a bit.”

“Thank you,” Mum said, setting Grace’s new robes onto her chair. “That would be greatly appreciated.” She pulled out her own wand. “I can finish cleaning up the rest of the spill, Madam Pomfrey.”

Pomfrey shot her a grateful look. She pocketed her wand. “It’ll take me a moment to find some Cool-Down. It’s not the season for fever, so I haven’t got a batch readily available.” She gathered the empty flask from Grace’s bed. “I think I’ve got some in storage; if not, I’ll have to brew a new batch.” With that, she disappeared behind the curtains and into the backroom.

Grace watched her Mum clear up the rest of the spilled Calming Draught. Mum didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed that Grace had been given Slytherin robes instead of Gryffindor ones. Did she simply think it was a mistake? Had she always suspected? Had someone told her already?

“Here,” Mum said, pressing the fresh set of robes into Grace’s limp arms. “You should change, if only because I think there’s a bit of Calming Draught under you that I couldn’t manage to siphon away.”

“I—” Grace started and then stopped. She willed her heart to beat less furiously. It didn’t.

Dad’s eyes caught sight of the Slytherin crest, the silver of which shone under the beams of moonlight from the opposite window. His brows rose, furrowed, and then—after glancing silently at his wife—relaxed. He didn’t say anything at all, and this only made Grace feel worse.

Her hands trembled under the fabric. Her eyes—wide as a fawn’s, damp as a rainladen cloud—glanced between her parents. She couldn’t quite meet their eyes, wasn’t prepared to see whatever expression it was that was blooming across their faces, so she focused on different aspects, trying to piece together what they felt feature by feature. She saw her mother’s full lips, soft and loose, not quite a smile and not quite a grimace. She saw the crease of her father’s forehead, the wrinkles that showed off his puzzlement, his concern.

“Are you alright?” Dad asked at last, and his voice had not changed in the slightest from before. It was just as tender and gentle as it had ever been. “Would you like Mum to help you with your robes?”

Stark silence met his words.

After a moment, Mum settled back into the chair on Grace’s other side and leaned forward. “What’s this about? Are you anxious about something?”

Grace’s couldn’t force herself to be quiet for much longer. Her heart beat against her chest like a jackhammer. The words rushed up her throat like a torrent. “You don’t mind?” she found herself saying. She had expected her voice to be very loud and very sharp—thunderous, even, like a wave crashing. Instead, the words came out muted and hushed, as though what was once a secret must always be treated like one.

“Don’t mind what?” Dad said immediately.

Mum caught on. One of her hands found its way over the prominent Slytherin crest on the robes. “You mean this? Is that why you wouldn’t let the matron take away your covers? You were trying to hide your robes?”

Grace nodded dumbly.

“Why?” Mum asked.

“Well—I—” Grace’s voice was hoarse and hollowed out, “—I didn’t want to tell you…about this.” Her head dropped, and her eyes bored into that pesky Slytherin crest. The embroidered snake stared back at her with its yellow-slitted eyes.

“Why ever not?” Dad said, and there was an undercurrent of hurt in there somewhere. “We don’t do secrets, Grace, not from each other.”

“Monty,” Mum said quietly, silencing him. “Grace—look at me.” She did, with great difficulty. “There’s no reason for you to be ashamed of your Sorting. It’s—”

“I’m not ashamed,” Grace said immediately, a hint of color spreading into her voice.

She wasn’t _ashamed_ of Slytherin. She wasn’t completely sold on the idea of Slytherin as her House, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be ashamed of it. Over the past two months, she had come to appreciate it for what it was. She detested Myrcella Rosier and her shrieking voice, but she rather liked the way Greengrass and Fuentes traded barbs every day. Where else could she find wit and snark like that? Avery annoyed Grace on a weekly basis, but she liked how Andromeda could get the sneering seventh-year to turn beet-red with just a look. Where else could she find someone who spoke volumes without uttering a word? And, of course, she couldn’t be ashamed of Regulus, who was soft and loyal and passionate. Where else could she find a best friend as trustworthy and smart as him? No—she wasn’t  _ashamed_ of Slytherin.

“I just didn’t want to tell you,” Grace carried on. “I didn’t want you to be mad at me.” Her voice broke on the last word, so she retreated back into silence.

“Oh, darling,” Mum said. “We would never, ever be mad at you for something as silly as a Sorting.”

“Never,” Dad agreed solemnly. “You know the Sorting is a reflection of who you are. We would never be mad at who you are. We love you, Gracie—no matter what.” He shared a sheepish look with Mum. “This does, of course, explain a lot.”

“Why you never mentioned what James was up to, or the Gryffindor common room, or what you thought of your Head of House,” Mum said. She looked just as bashful as Dad. “We should apologize, of course. For our own assumptions. Now that I think on it—you’d never actually mentioned what House you were Sorted into in your letters.”

Dad’s brows flew up. “You’re right. I suppose we just thought….” He fixed Grace with an apologetic look. “That wasn’t right of us. Sorry, Gracie.”

Grace peered up at her parents. The furious beat of her heart had long slowed into something gentler. “It’s okay,” she said.

If it had been any other situation, she might have lorded her parent’s apology over them, but her body ached terribly. Her chest felt hollowed out, and the center of her throat was still tight and raw despite the fact she had barely said anything at all.

“To be quite honest with you,” Dad started again, “this is really stupendous news. Now there’s been a Potter Sorted into every House at Hogwarts!”

“Every House?” Grace said. “But I thought all Potters were in Gryffindor?”

Mum smiled. “No, dear. I suppose that’s something you’ve picked up from James, isn’t it?”

“Er—maybe.”

“We’ve had a couple Potters weasel their way into Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.” Dad looked up, trying to remember which Potters had done exactly that. “If I remember correctly...it must have been my sixth cousin twice removed—Orville Potter—or was it Oliver? Ah, no matter his name—he was Sorted into Hufflepuff.” Dad let out a great laugh. “The jokes we made at his expense…. Poor sod. I wonder what he’s been up to lately.”

“He passed away some time ago, dear,” Mum said rather pointedly.

Dad was struck by the news. “Oh, that’s right. Well—he made quite a few jokes about my name, so I suppose we’re even.”

Grace shifted in her cot. She had never heard of this Orville or Oliver Potter, whoever he was. She had never heard of any Potter that hadn’t been a Gryffindor. When Grace was very young and still stumbling over her letters, James had gathered a genealogy book from the home library. He sat with her and they traced over their ancestors’ names: Fleamont Potter, Henry Potter, Frederick Potter, and on and on. All were Gryffindors, James had said.

Perhaps he had been wrong, like Mum said.

“Sorry,” Grace said after a moment. “For not telling you.”

“No need to apologize for that,” Dad said. “We understand why you thought to hide it. I just hope you know, now, that you have no reason to hide anything like this from us.”

Grace nodded absently.

“You know,” Mum said, voice soft and steady as a breeze, “the Sorting Hat did consider me for Slytherin.”

“Really?” Grace said.

“Oh, yes.” Mum smiled. “For my ‘fierce loyalty,’ it said. I suppose, in the end, it decided the way I went about my loyalty was more Hufflepuff than Slytherin.”

Grace smiled, and it was a wan but thoroughly heartfelt thing. Euphemia Potter was not really a Potter (she was a Mishra, an old pure-blood family with roots in India), but Grace knew in her heart that her mother was as strong and brave and chivalrous as any Potter that was or ever had been. And if Euphemia Potter had very nearly been Sorted into Slytherin, then wasn’t it only fitting for her daughter—who must be just as strong and brave and chivalrous—to have actually gotten into Slytherin?

“You’ve been granted a rare opportunity,” Mum pressed on. “Many Potters have been Sorted into Gryffindor because that is the House that best defines them. But for you, Grace—my darling, special Grace—” normally Grace would have scowled at the attention, but her heart longed for this so much that she found herself preening, “—you have the extraordinary chance of defining your House instead of letting it define you.”

“You really think so?” Grace said. She couldn’t remember much of the conversation she had with the Sorting Hat. There had been some talk of Grace needing Slytherin to get to the future—or whatever she wanted her future to hold. Had there also been talk of Slytherin needing Grace?

“Of course,” Dad said. “It’s quite the challenge—bringing some of our trademark Potter charm into Slytherin—but if anyone could do it, Grace, it’s you.”

Her whole body felt warm, and it was different from the feverish tinge earlier. It was the same warm feeling she got around Yuletide, when the sky above Godric’s Hollow was alight with fireworks and her body was full of hot chocolate and marshmallows. Grace smiled up at her parents and felt an overwhelming rush of affection for the two of them. If it were not for the terrible aches and throbs running through her body, she might have gotten up and leapt into her parent’s arms, like she used to when she was little.

Mum glanced at the curtains. “That matron of yours is likely brewing a whole batch of Cool-Down.” She glanced at Dad. “Should we help her?”

He seemed very reluctant to leave Grace’s side. “Er—I’m actually quite bad at medical potions, so it would probably be for the best if I didn’t assist.”

Mum rose from her wicker chair. “And yet somehow,” she murmured under her breath, “you got an O in N.E.W.T. Potions.”

“That was a fluke,” Dad explained easily. “The examiner was blind as a bat. Couldn’t even tell the color of my Wiggenweld was off by at least three shades.”

Mum sighed deeply. She looked to Grace. “I’ll go see if Madam Pomfrey is alright. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Okay,” Grace said, watching her mother duck through the curtains. Slowly, her gaze traveled back to her Dad, who was cracking his neck and shifting in his chair. Grace’s lips quirked into a small frown. “You should go home, Dad.”

His brows flew up. “Why would I ever do that?”

“You’ve been sleeping in these chairs for two days. I’m fine now. You and Mum ought to go home and get a good night’s sleep.”

“But—” Dad started.

“It won’t be a dark, empty Hospital Wing when I wake up. It’ll be morning—full of light—and Madam Pomfrey will be there. And probably my friends—” it was really only Regulus but her parents didn’t need to know she had only one friend, “—will drop by. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I see,” Dad teased. “Don’t want your parents embarrassing you in front of your new friends, eh?”

“Yeah, I don’t want them to know that my dad was a bookworm in Hogwarts and got an O in N.E.W.T. Potions.” Grace shook her head with mock sadness. “They’ll start thinking I’m like _you_.”

He laughed. “What? Is Potions no longer cool? It was all the rage back in my day!”

Grace snorted. “Dad, I think only _you_ thought it ‘all the rage.’”

“Fair enough,” he said, and smiled at her. “You’ll truly be fine if we went home?”

“Of course. Madam Pomfrey’s good as any Healer—better, even.”

“Well—” there was still a sliver of unsurety, “—we’ll stick around until you get your Cool-Down and then Calming Draught.” His eyes caught onto hers. “You don’t mind, do you? If we stay till then?”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Grace said and, for the first time in her life, she actually meant it.

* * *

Grace blinked awake, shielding her eyes from the harsh bright light filtering through the top of her curtains. She groaned in bed and rolled away from the light, burying her face in her pillow. She tried to hold on to her dream—something to do with being the first, something to do with applause and bright smiles and streamers—but she was already half-awake and the dream had grown slippery and distorted. Resigned, Grace opened her lids and shifted up in bed, resting her back against her pillow, head pressed against the cool stone wall.

The curtains were rolled away, providing Grace with a clear view of the rest of the Hospital Wing. It was large, with rows of cots set up neatly along the two parallel walls. There were bookcases near the enormous front door, as well as shelves with vials and flasks of strange, glimmering potions. In the back, Grace could just make out the door to Pomfrey’s residence.

“Good, you’re awake,” Pomfrey said, stepping towards Grace’s bed. Her wand was already out, and she was tracing it over Grace’s head. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Grace said, although her body still ached. It was coming in flashes now, like there was lightning coursing through her body every couple of seconds.

Pomfrey tucked away her wand and smiled warmly. She pulled a vial from her robes. “I’m glad to hear it, dear. You’re recovering quite nicely. I have half a mind to release you tomorrow morning.”

Grace brightened. Tomorrow morning was Tuesday, after all. If she could be out of the Hospital Wing by then, then she would have only missed one class. She could catch up quite easily, and it wouldn’t be difficult to explain away one absence to her fellow classmates.

“Here you are,” Pomfrey said, uncorking the flask and handing it to Grace. “Draught of Peace. It’ll clear away any of the nasty aches and pangs you’ve still got.”

Grace took the vial. The potion within was a shimmering, pale blue, and when she tipped the draught into her open mouth, she found that it tasted faintly of cinnamon. As soon as it travelled down her gullet, Grace found her throat felt less tight and strained, her body less tense. The occasional throb still pulsed through her body, but she didn’t mind it as much anymore.

“Thanks,” Grace said, handing back the empty flask.

“Of course,” Pomfrey beamed. She waved her wand, and the curtains around Grace’s cot vanished entirely. “I’ll be in my office, dear. Holler if you need me. If you’re lonely, you have Mr. Lupin for company. He came in a couple of hours after you went to sleep last night.”

Grace looked to her side and found, one cot down, a rather thin boy sitting up in his own hospital bed. He was pale and slight, with sandy brown hair that flopped over the sides of his face. When Grace squinted, she thought she could see a narrow scar across the bridge of his nose and another down the side of his face. He was holding a goblet of Calming Draught, and when he lifted the large, golden cup to take a swallow, the sleeves of his robe rode down and Grace could see his arm. There were fresh cuts bleeding through tightly-wrapped gauze.

She looked away hastily, and picked at the loose threads at the hem of her new covers. What in Merlin’s name could have happened to that poor boy? It looked like he had gotten into a brawl with a manticore.

“Hullo,” a weary voice called out. Grace’s head snapped to her right. The scarred boy was looking at her. Despite the sallowness of his skin and the tremble of his hands as he clutched his goblet, he was smiling. “You’re Grace, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said with heavy suspicion. She supposed Pomfrey must have told him her name. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Remus,” he said simply. He didn’t say anything after that, merely watched her, waiting for something—perhaps recognition.

For what it was worth, his name did sound rather familiar. _Remus_. She must have read it in a novel, or perhaps Regulus had told it to her once. It sounded like a fairly common name. Maybe she had just heard it in passing.

“Are you okay?” Remus asked after Grace didn’t say anything.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m fine.”

And because she could not help herself, Grace asked, “What happened to you?”

“Oh,” Remus said. “I’ve got the flu.”

It was a very bad lie, but Grace figured she deserved it. There was no reason for him to tell her what _really_ happened. After all, it could be that he had gotten injured while breaking the rules, and he hadn’t even told Pomfrey.

“What about you?” Remus asked after a moment.

Grace blinked. “I’ve got the flu, too.”

“I see,” Remus hummed. “Must be flu season.”

“Must be,” she echoed.

A long stretch of silence followed, interrupted only by the occasional slurp of draught by Remus. Grace shifted in her bed, eventually deciding on lying down. She patted down her pillow and turned away from Remus, staring into the linen of the next cot over. The Hospital Wing was very warm and the pillow was very soft. Grace found her eyelids drooping. _Remus_. Grace pondered on the name as she tried to drift back into her old dream. _Where have I heard that name?_

It was only an hour later, when the double doors of the Hospital Wing opened with a bang, that Grace remembered where she had heard that name from. It had come from her brother’s lips back during the summer. He had been recounting one of the Marauders’ exploits: charming passing students’ cloaks to flip over their heads and then pushing them in the direction of the Great Lake. _We never would have done it without that spell, of course_ , James had said, with a wide grin and lit eyes. _Remus figured it out. He’s a dab hand at little charms like that_.

“Remus!” Sirius Black’s familiar, brash voice filled the Hospital Wing.

Grace shot up from her bed and winced as her body protested against the sudden movement in the form of a particularly malicious ache. She stared—momentarily dumbstruck—as Sirius bounded across the Hospital Wing and threw himself onto Remus’s bed like it was _his_ bed and Remus was only borrowing it. Following closely behind was a pudgy boy with straw-like hair and watery blue eyes (Peter, if Grace remembered correctly) and, of course, James.

He hadn’t changed much in two months. He was a little taller, maybe, but his jet-black hair was still as thick and unruly as ever. His skin shone gold under the great shafts of light that streamed from the large windows that adorned the Hospital Wing. His eyes were bright, obscured only partially by his new spectacles, and he wore that trademark easygoing grin of his.

“Hello,” Remus said, but his voice was much more pained now. His eyes sought out James. “You won’t believe who’s here, James—” Grace slid down her bed and covered herself up with her sheets, “—it’s your sister.”

“ _What?_ ” James said, and he sounded positively astounded. Grace couldn’t tell if this was positive or negative. “Where—oh—” she supposed Remus had pointed out her cot, “—is she sleeping?”

“I dunno, maybe. We only talked a little.”

Grace shifted in her makeshift hideout. There was no reason now to be avoiding James, not really. What was she scared of? His reaction? She had thought her parents would react the same way he would, but Mum and Dad weren’t the slightest bit angry. If anything, they were thrilled. They loved every bit of her for it. Shouldn’t James? _Wouldn’t_ James? Even if he didn’t—well—she’d just send a letter to Mum and Dad and have them knock some sense into him, right?

Grace took a deep breath. She was tired of avoiding her brother, tired of not being able to sit with Regulus in the Great Hall, tired of making excuses and hiding and feeling bad about something that was out of her control. Her parents were right: the Sorting was a reflection of who she was, and she was a Slytherin. James should know that, should understand that, should accept that.

She whipped the covers off of herself and found that all three boys were pooled around Remus’s bed, talking in whispers. “Hello,” she called out hesitantly.

It was Sirius who caught sight of her first, because he was laid across Remus’s bed horizontally and had just the perfect vantage point for spotting her. “Look, Puny Potter’s awake.”

Grace’s lips immediately settled into a frown. “ _Puny_ —” she started, but her words came to a halt when James turned around towards her.

“Grace,” James said, already padding towards her. “Have you—” his voice dropped to a shadow of a whisper once he reached her bedside, “—had an episode?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but that doesn’t really matter right now. I’ve got to tell you something.”

He narrowed his eyes down at her. “You didn’t convince Mum and Dad to give the Cloak to you, did you?”

She stared at him. “What? No—”

“Oh, good,” he relaxed. “Because the Cloak plays a very vital part in my escapades.”

“Alright, that’s great,” she said impatiently. Two months suddenly seemed like two seconds. James hadn’t changed in the slightest. “Now, I’ve got something to tell you.” She paused briefly, deciding it was best to ease James into the news. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sirius peering at them with barely-concealed curiosity. “You know how you think _all_ Potters have been Sorted into Gryffindor?”

“I don’t think that,” James said immediately. “I mean, I guess I _used_ to. But you’re in Slytherin now, so that’s not true, is it?”

Grace didn’t know what to say to this. She opened her mouth and then closed it, her eyes locked onto James’s indifferent expression. She had waited so very long for this moment, had thought it would end up with James red in the face, screaming his voice hoarse. She had thought there would be more of a fight, because there was always a fight with James. But—no—instead the moment seemed to be moving swiftly by, unnoticed and insignificant, a pebble dropped into the ocean.

“You know?” Grace found herself whispering.

“Of course I know,” James said in the infuriating way James always says things—off-handedly and without a care in the world, without even a _thought_. “We’ve _all_  known—and pretty much the moment it happened, too. It was pretty big news.” James squinted down at Grace disapprovingly. “You know, Sirius and I were looking for you.”

“I—” she started and then stopped.

She was about to say _I’m sorry_ , but what had she to be sorry for? There was a great tornado of thoughts rushing through Grace’s mind. He’d _known_? This _whole time_ he’d known? He’d known every day Grace had been at Hogwarts. He’d known at every meal Grace had spent in the kitchens. He’d known at every moment—every blasted moment—that Grace had been Sorted into Slytherin. And this reaction was somehow worse than the temper tantrum she had expected. He knew, and he didn’t care. He knew and had tried—once—to seek her out, and then never again. He knew so much: he knew that Grace was the first Potter to be Sorted into Slytherin. He knew that nearly all Potters had been Sorted into Gryffindor and that Grace had been expected to follow suit. He knew this, and so he _must have_ known how Grace had felt when the Sorting had turned out the way it did—that crushing, swooping sense of disappointment. He must have known this, and he did _nothing_.

“Just to be absolutely clear,” Grace’s voice was utterly calm, but her insides were boiling. She was half-sure that if she exhaled, steam would come out her nostrils. “You’ve known this whole time, haven’t cared in the slightest, and simply decided not to find me?”

From behind James, Grace could see Sirius and Peter behind Remus’s hospital bed. Peter looked absolutely terrified about what might happen next, and Sirius looked absolutely delighted at the prospect of what might happen next. The only person who seemed to have an understanding of what might be going through Grace’s head was Remus. His eyes were focused completely on James, and his lips were stretched thin and taut and curved into a disapproving little frown.

James balked at her. “Well, of course I _tried_ to find you, but you certainly weren’t making it easy, were you?”

Grace threw her sheets at James, who barely staggered back by the force of it. But it wasn’t meant to actually hurt James; it was meant to distract him. The minute James’s attention was diverted by the thrown robes, Grace launched herself at him, tackling him to the ground.

“You—absolute—wanker—!” Grace shoved at him as he tried to deflect. James rolled away from her.

They both rose, a bed’s worth of distance between them. Grace didn’t feel a single ache in her body; pure rage filled every fiber of her being. She grabbed the pillow from her bed and threw that at James, too. He caught it, and she growled in frustration.

“Did you forget what a bloody owl was?” Grace yelled, and threw the next cot’s blanket at him, too. “Mum and Dad bought you one, didn’t they? Bought you that awful waste of an owl—”

James seethed. “Goldie _isn’t_ a waste—”

“What do you do with that owl?” Grace grabbed the pillow off the next bed and held it up threateningly. “Do you just admire it all day long or some bollocks?”

“What in Merlin’s name is going on out here?” A furious Madam Pomfrey emerged from the depths of the Hospital Wing. She glanced quickly between Grace—pillow held aloft, eyes burning—and James, who was cowering at least two meters away with grimace stitched tightly onto his face, and seemed to come to her own conclusion about what happened. “Five points from Gryffindor for antagonizing my patients, Mr. Potter.”

James gaped at her. “ _What_ —”

“And _Miss Potter_ ,” Madam Pomfrey turned her almighty glare on Grace, who promptly dropped the pillow back onto its rightful bed. “Over-exerting yourself in your current state is absolutely the _last_ thing you should be doing. Come on—back into bed.” Madam Pomfrey herded Grace back into her own hospital bed before turning back to James and his band of friends. “If you _ever_ cause another disruption in this Hospital Wing, I promise you I will _ban_ you, Mr. Potter.”

“You can’t do that,” Sirius piped in. “What if James breaks a bone playing Quidditch? Are you going to refuse to let him in? Are you going to let his broken bone go unmended? Are you going to let him succumb to infection—”

“Madam Pomfrey, Sirius is bothering me, too,” Grace called out.

“Both of you—” Pomfrey’s eyes landed on Peter, “— _all_ of you out _at once_ or I will take another five points from Gryffindor.”

Peter scampered away, and he took James and Sirius with them. Just as they left, Sirius shot Grace a deeply betrayed look. Grace returned the favor with a rude gesture, which she promptly hid when Pomfrey turned back around.

Pomfrey narrowed her eyes at Grace. “If you leave this hospital bed again, Miss Potter, I will delay your release by a day.”

“I won’t,” Grace said tiredly, letting herself sink into the mattress. After that wild burst of energy, she felt absolutely drained. “Too tired for it.”

Pomfrey pursed her lips. “I’ll get you some Pepper-Up in a bit.”

With that, the matron strode back to her own room. Grace stared up at the great stone ceiling of the Hospital Wing, James’s voice echoing in her head— _of course I know, of course I know, of course I know_ —like some sort of monstrous chant.

“Sorry I got them all kicked out,” Grace said after a moment, twisting to Remus, who had begun reading a book. “I suppose you wanted to spend time with them.”

He shrugged. “S’alright. Sometimes they’re a bit overwhelming.” His light eyes roved over Grace curiously. “If it’s any consolation, I told James to send you an owl. He said something about you being allergic to them.”

“Yeah—well—he could’ve given Regulus a note then, right?”

“Maybe,” Remus said, but there was something in his voice that suggested he was just saying that to placate Grace, that perhaps James had tried that but run into some other obstacle or hurdle along the way.

Grace huffed and turned away. So what if James didn’t want to use an owl or Regulus? He was creative. After all, he was always finding new ways to torture students. Couldn’t he have figured out some way to reach out to Grace? Even a note slipped into the Slytherin common room would have been enough. In her mind, she knew exactly what it would have—or _should have_ —said: _I know. It’s okay. You’re still Gummy Grace to me._

* * *

Years spent in wards had introduced Grace to a very unique phenomenon: time passed more slowly in a hospital bed. It was true. The minutes had flown by rather swiftly in the beginning. Remus had begun reading his book out loud, and it had been rather interesting. It was a Muggle book about four children entering a wardrobe and encountering talking animals and centaurs (who were much more talkative than _real_ centaurs). But Remus had nodded off to sleep soon after that, and by the time the grandfather clock in the corner of the Hospital Wing hit ten, Grace felt like an entire decade had passed.

She was only granted a reprieve from the slow, dull passage of time when the doors to the Hospital Wing opened once more and she saw Regulus Black—slight and hesitant—enter. He caught sight of her very quickly and bounded over, grimace giving way to a soft smile, dull grey eyes lighting up.

“ _Finally_ ,” Regulus said, setting his knapsack down and throwing himself onto the chair by Grace’s cot. “I’ve been searching for you since Saturday! I nearly thought you left Hogwarts.” A shadow of anxiety passed over his face. “No one knew where you’d gone. I even asked _Gamp_ if he’d heard anything.”

Grace felt this had been a mistake on Regulus’s part. Gamp hardly talked about anything other than himself. “Did he?”

“Of course he didn’t.” Regulus wrinkled his nose. “All he did was drag me into yet another story about what his mother’s forbid him from buying this week.”

“Let me guess—joke wands? On account of them being—I dunno—able to turn into Muggle things?”

“No, it was actually sugar quills, because they might be manufactured by a Muggle company or something.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Gamp is ridiculous. Why would Muggles make sugar quills? They don’t even use quills. Did you know they use _pens_?”

Regulus’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Yeah, they’re very expensive, apparently,” she said sagely.

“Why?” Regulus said. “Doesn’t it do the same thing as a quill? Wait—before you answer that, you’ve got the answer my question: Where’ve you been?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious, Regulus.” Grace gestured uselessly at the hospital beds around her. “I’ve been here. You’d know if you’d checked earlier.”

“I _did_ check,” Regulus said, affronted. “I came by on Saturday because it was the only place I hadn’t checked.”

Grace was secretly pleased by this. “Oh—well, I think Madam Pomfrey had these curtains up then, so I might have been hidden by those.”

“That might explain it. I think I saw curtains when I came in, but—” Regulus frowned a little, “—I don’t really remember.”

“If you didn’t see me here on Saturday, why’d you figure I must be here now?”

“We just had History of Magic. I figured you wouldn’t miss that class unless something was physically keeping you from it. Being trapped here was the only thing that made sense.”

“Regulus, you really do overestimate how much I care about that class.” Grace let out a sigh. “But, you’re right: I wouldn’t have missed a chance to badger Binns about how he died. Did you ask him on my behalf today?”

Regulus looked like he would eat a bucket of slugs before willingly interrupting Binns during his lecture. “No, but he did seem a little surprised when the end of class came by and you hadn’t interrupted his lecture.”

“I suppose I’m growing on him,” Grace hummed. “That’s good. The more he likes me, the more likely it is he’ll tell me how he died.”

“We could probably look it up, you know? I’m sure one of the old _Prophet_ articles in the library—”

Grace gave an almighty fake gasp. “What you’re suggesting is akin to cheating, Regulus! If we’re going to find out how Binns passed, we’re going to do it in the most straightforward way possible—”

“You just want to keep wasting class time by pestering him about it, don’t you?”

“You’re one hundred percent right.” Grace smiled.

Regulus shook his head fondly. He leaned back against his chair and gave Grace a once-over. “Are you better now?”

“Yeah, I suppose so, but Pomfrey won’t let me out till tomorrow morning.”

“Why not?” Regulus asked. He scooted his chair a bit away from Grace. “Are you contagious?”

“What—no—” she scowled. “Why would I be contagious?”

“I don’t know,” Regulus said defensively. “What happened, exactly?”

Grace’s mind scrambled to find an excuse that explained her disappearance for the whole weekend. “I—er—fell down the stairs,” she said wildly, “and shattered my knees.”

“ _What_?” Regulus said, absolutely horrified by this news. His eyes flickered down to Grace’s covered-up knees. “Did it hurt?”

“What do you think?” she said flatly.

He grimaced. “And it took the whole weekend for Pomfrey to mend them?”

“Er—yeah. It involved some—” Grace didn’t know much about medical magic, but she figured have several pieces of bones shattered would take a while to heal, “—complicated magic. I was bleeding and all, you know. The bone fragments were—er—all over the place—”

“Alright, alright,” Regulus said, wincing. “I think I get it.” He still didn’t move his chair back. “But you’re sure you’re not contagious?”

“Contagious for _what_ , Regulus?”

“It’s just that you look kind of peaky…” Regulus said. “Maybe you should ask Pomfrey to check if you’ve got a fever? I read somewhere that really grievous injuries can get infected—”

“I only shattered my knees, Regulus! I didn’t get _stabbed_ —”

“But you said you broke skin?”

Grace wished she hadn’t gone into so much detail about her made-up injury. “Er—yeah.”

“So it’s _possible_ it got infected and now you’re ill.”

“Why does it sound like you _want_ me to be ill?” she demanded.

“I don’t!” Regulus said immediately. “But I don’t want to get sick in case you’re contagious.”

“I’m _not_ contagious, Regulus.”

“How do you know that? You’re not a Healer.”

Grace stared at him, unimpressed. “I’m really regretting that you stopped by, Regulus.”

“Is that so? Are you going to regret me helping you go over the stuff we learned in class today?”

“Really _loving_ that you stopped by, Regulus,” Grace said with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

Regulus burst out laughing and, after a second or so, Grace followed suit. After several moments of trying to stop laughing only to start laughing at the slightest giggle, Regulus took a deep breath and asked, “Okay, so what were you saying about the Muggle quills?”

“The what?”

“You said Muggles don’t have quills. They’ve got something else.”

Grace had never met someone who listened as intently as Regulus. She was quite sure any other person would have long forgotten the tangent she had brought up. But not Regulus. She half-suspected the boy besides her had a file cabinet for a brain, where he could store little details of conversations to refer back to later.

“Oh, right!” Grace said, smiling. “They’ve got these things called pens, and you don’t need to dip them in an inkpot to write because they’ve got the ink inside.”

Regulus didn’t seem as impressed by this as she had hoped. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got a charm that does that for quills, too.”

“Maybe, but isn’t it nice that the Muggles figured it out without any magic?”

Regulus’s forehead creased. “I guess?”

The reaction was quite anti-climactic, and Grace figured this was due, in part, to the fact that she couldn’t _show_ him a Muggle pen. If Regulus had seen the way Cresswell had been using it—the boy’s hands going at lightning-speed across his parchment—he would have surely been blown away. Grace resolved to try to get her hands on a Muggle pen.

Regulus reached for his bag. “Sorry—I’ve got to get going to class now. We only got a little break between History of Magic and Transfiguration, and I don’t want to risk being late. You know how McGonagall hates that.”

Grace made a face. “Have fun sitting next to Gamp.”

“Don’t even _joke_ about that. I’m going to try to set next to a Ravenclaw. There’s this boy—Henson—who glares at Gamp every time he seems him.”

“House unity at its finest,” Grace smirked. “Ravenclaws and Slytherins alike can’t stand the sight of Gamp.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to stop by after dinner?”

“Sure,” Grace said. “I’ve got quite a lot to tell you, actually, about my brother and my big plan.” Her words took on a bitter tinge.

Regulus’s brows rose. “Is everything okay?”

“I’ll tell you later,” she promised, and watched Regulus scurry off to Transfiguration as if he was about to be five minute late instead of five minutes early.

* * *

Grace was awoken in the middle of the night by retching.

It was coming from her right, from Remus. He was heaving and gasping for breath, and the sound made Grace sink further into her sheets. It sounded desperate and animalistic, and it only made Grace want to gag herself. She bit the inside of her cheek hard, and drew her pillow over her ear. Despite the cushioning, she could still hear the occasional dry heave. She could hear Madam Pomfrey, too. She heard the matron bustling around Remus, her feet padding against the polished floor, her hands setting various vials against the bedside table, her voice coated in whispers.

It must have been fifteen minutes or so before Remus seemed to be better. Grace waited until she heard the door to the backroom close. Once it was clear that Madam Pomfrey had gone, Remus Lupin let out a barrage of violent dry coughs, and Grace winced at the severity of it.

When the bout seemed to die down, she asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” Remus croaked.

Silence washed over the two of them. Grace found she couldn’t quite go to sleep after the noises she had heard. Her eyes were drawn to the candlelight on her bedside table. She raised her hand towards it, and her fingers brushed the top of the flame. She drew her hand away and began making shadow puppets—a duck, a misshapen billywig, a fire crab.

When she grew bored of this, she turned away and stared up at the dark of ceiling. Hesitantly, she called out, “Are you still awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Grace didn’t know what else to say. She’d imagined they might enter some sort of conversation now, but she didn’t know what it was Remus liked—except, perhaps, books about talking animals.

As it turned out, she didn’t need to begin the conversation, because Remus had something to say: “I heard you tell Sirius’s brother you broke your knees.” Remus’s voice was curious, a tender thing unfurling in the dark. “Did that happen before or after your contracted the flu?”

Grace pursed her lips. She shifted over in her bed, so she was on her side. What did it matter if Remus knew she was lying? After all, she knew he was covering something up, too. And—Grace bit the inside of her cheek—it didn’t sound like there was anything malicious in the way Remus had said it, either. If anything, it sounded like a carefully worded message. It sounded like a test.

“Did you get those cuts before or after _you_ got the flu?” Grace responded. Her voice was very soft and very tired.

Another bout of silence followed. Just as Grace began to wonder if she had completely misinterpreted the interaction, Remus said, “We’re both lying, aren’t we?”

Her heart relaxed. “Yeah.” Grace fiddled with the hem of her linen blanket. “Are you _actually_ okay? Sometimes I tell people I am when I’m not, but it’s only because I’m tired of being asked. I figure you’ve probably been saying the same.”

“Yeah,” Remus agreed, voice small. “It...it hurts a lot, honestly.”

“Yeah…” Grace said. The worst of the pain was gone, but her whole body ached like it had been running continuously for the past day and a half instead of sleeping. “But you’ve survived all the other times. You’ll survive this time, too. You’re strong. That’s what my Dad says, at least.”

“Thanks.” There was a thread of humor in his voice. “My mum says it’ll get better. I dunno if I really believe her, but it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

Grace smiled to herself. “It is.”


	8. Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace plans her revenge, meets her tutor, and destroys the Hogwarts library.

In the end, Pomfrey kept Grace in the Hospital Wing for an extra day, much to Grace’s dismay. The Hogwarts matron had said it was for additional monitoring, to make sure that Grace was truly stable, but Grace highly suspected it was payback for throwing herself at James the other day.

In any case, it was a dreary Wednesday morning when Grace was released from the Hospital Wing with a clean bill of health. Remus had been discharged along with her, although, if Grace were being honest, she wasn’t entirely sure if it was in his best interest to be heading to class. The older boy seemed as haggard as ever, and although the cuts across his arms had stopped bleeding, Grace was not sure they had actually healed yet. Or if they ever would. She had brought them up once more (Tuesday morning, after Pomfrey told Grace she couldn’t leave yet), just out of curiosity, but Remus had acted awfully cagey, skipping over the question entirely and instead commenting about the overcast. Based on the hushed conversation they had the night before last, Grace was fairly certain the scarred boy had some sort of illness, but she wasn’t sure how any illness could result in cuts like _that_.

She hadn’t asked Remus about his cuts again, because she knew she would have gotten upset if someone kept badgering her about her own paroxysms and didn’t want Remus to be upset with her. After all, it was rather nice having a sort-of friend at Hogwarts who might be going through the same thing she was. In some strange, twisted way, assuming that Remus had his own condition—perhaps some sort of blood curse—made Grace feel better about herself. It made her feel less alone.

“And tell him he’s a wanker,” Grace instructed Remus as they strolled from the Hospital Wing to the Great Hall. “Tell him he’s an arrogant wanker who doesn’t know how to use an owl.”

“I’ll tell him,” Remus said. There was a soft grin blossoming across his face. “I can’t promise I’ll remember it all. You gave me quite the list. What was it? Prat, then git, then…?”

“Just tell James what you can remember.” Grace’s eyes darkened. “I’ll be sending him a complete list via owl tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. I was worried for a second.”

“Do you know a charm that can make an owl eject droppings on James?”

Remus’s brows rose. “I don’t think they’ve taught us that one yet, oddly enough,” he said lightly. “Is there any way I can convince you _not_ to spill owl droppings all over James, if only because I sit near him during meals?”

She thought about it. “No.”

“You’re really giving this revenge thing your all, aren’t you?”

“We Potters throw ourselves fully into our endeavors.”

Remus gave her a sidelong glance. “James said something similar when he stole five newborn mandrakes from Professor Sprout’s storeroom.”  

Grace pursed her lips. “Your point being?”

Remus shrugged good-naturedly. “Just thought it was interesting is all.”

Grace narrowed her eyes at him. “You can’t convince me _not_ to get revenge on James.”

She knew she might be blowing this whole thing out of proportion. After all, Remus had told her at least twenty times that James had truly tried to find Grace before it became apparent that Grace did not want to be found. But Grace was still fuming from the incident in the Hospital Wing, from the knowledge that James had known about her Sorting this whole time and hadn’t figured out some way to provide her with comfort when she needed it most. What sort of big brother was he? If he couldn’t even break into the Slytherin common room and track her down?

“I’m not trying to,” Remus said. “I actually think it might be good if you knocked him down a peg or two. I’m just wondering if you’ve thought this through.”

“Well—I haven’t got a _complete_ plan yet,” Grace admitted. “I need to find out where to get owl droppings, for one—”

Remus laughed. “No, I meant, like, what if James retaliates? And then you two are stuck in a sort of perpetual back-and-forth? Dousing each other in owl droppings till the end of time?”

Grace wrinkled her nose. “Now that just seems highly unlikely. Surely we’d move on to something other than owl droppings after a while.”

“Of course you two would,” Remus snorted before stopping at the threshold of the Great Hall. He turned towards her and his eyes—a pale green, like the color of dry grass seen through a dewdrop—rested on her. There was something heartfelt about the way he was looking at her, and Grace wondered if he felt less alone, too, now that it was apparent Grace had some sort of ailment. “You sure you’re up to going back to class?”

Grace felt this was a rather hypocritical question for him to be asking. She looked a great deal better off than he did. Where Remus’s hair was shaggy and unkempt, Grace’s was thick and glossy. Where his face was sallow and pallid, hers was now bright and rosy. If anyone should be asked if they were up for class, it was Remus Lupin.

“Yeah,” Grace said readily. She squinted at him. “What about you? You look ready to hurl your guts out again.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “I won’t—unless you spread owl droppings all over the Gryffindor table,” he said, crossing into the Great Hall.

“I don’t even _where_ to get owl droppings from,” Grace huffed, following him, “Besides, I’d at least try not to get them on other students. I wouldn’t want….”

Grace trailed off as she caught sight of the Great Hall. It was like she had entered an entirely new part of the world. It was _humongous_ —much larger than James had described. The ceiling was enchanted to look like the sky, and it seemed to stretch out to infinity; it was a stormy grey currently, with thin strips of ash-colored clouds drifting by lazily. There were only a few shafts of light piercing through the overcast, but the Great Hall was hardly dim. There were massive torched dotted about the four walls, casting a warm glow over the four long tables in the center. Each of the tables seated students of the four Houses, and in the very back was another enormous table. This one was elevated slightly, and it held all the professors of Hogwarts, some of whom Grace had never seen before. She caught sight of Dumbledore, with his silvery beard and bright blue eyes, in the center, with others—McGonagall, Slughorn—around him.

“ _This_ is the Great Hall?” Grace said, voice hushed and in awe. She stared at the thousands of unlit candles that hung in midair.

“Yes,” Remus said, glancing down at her. “You really haven’t stepped foot in here?”

“No, it was all part of the ‘avoid James’ plan.” Grace caught sight of the Slytherin table. It was pushed up near the right wall. There were a mixture of years dotted all over the table, but she caught sight of a familiar clump of students—Greengrass, Fuentes, Wilkinson—sitting near the very end, close to the table of professors. She turned back to Remus. “I suppose this is where we part ways, Remus.”

Remus’s faint brows rose ever so slightly. “You don’t need to make it sound so absolute.”

“No, you see,” Grace shook her head sadly, “I’m sure the next time I’ll see you, you’ll be carrying a Dungbomb in your hands.”

His brows creased. “Why do you say that?”

Grace shrugged. “Maybe not a Dungbomb, but it’ll be something to retaliate against me with. James will rope you into some or the other plan, I’m sure.”

“Well, actually, I was planning on staying neutral throughout this whole mess.”

“I think you and I both know that won’t happen.” Grace’s eyes wavered to the Gryffindor table. She caught sight of James fairly quickly. He was the only one standing on the bench, staring stonily at Remus.

Remus followed her gaze, eyes landing on James. He sighed deeply, and seemed more haggard than ever. “This is the beginning of a feud, isn’t it?”

“Not yet,” Grace said sagely. “But after I send my Howler tomorrow, it will be.”

Remus’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “ _Howler_?”

“Yeah—I said I’d be sending him an owl, didn’t I?”

“I—” Remus started then stopped. He seemed to consider something—perhaps how to go about getting both Potters to stop something that would surely end in disaster—before deciding it wasn’t possible. “Just don’t blow anything up.”

“Maybe you should tell James that, not me,” Grace advised.

“Fair enough,” Remus said, glancing back at James. The bespectacled boy was still glaring at the duo. “I should probably get to him before he throws a fit.”

“Okay,” Grace said and extended her hand. Remus took it bemusedly and gave a little shake. “This has been a wonderful armistice, Remus. I hope you realize you’re now fair game for any residual owl droppings.”

“Great,” he said sarcastically, releasing her hand. “Thanks for the warning at least. Hopefully we’ll be able to talk without the shadow of feud or revenge at some point in our lives.”

Grace gave an exaggerated sigh. “We can dare to dream, can’t we?”

Remus chuckled before exchanging a few more parting words and heading off to the Gryffindor table. James grabbed onto the scarred boy when he was only an arm’s length away, and hauled him towards the Gryffindor table with more force than was strictly necessary. James ducked back down to the table, pulling Remus into a huddle he had formed with Peter and Sirius. From amongst the mass of Gryffindors, Sirius poked his head out and locked eyes with Grace. _Watch out_ , he mouthed and grinned.

Grace narrowed her eyes before deciding not to engage. She was familiar with Sirius’s goading now, and she was not going to fall for it. Grace turned her back on the table of Gryffindors and headed towards the thicket of first-year Slytherins. She spotted Regulus crammed between a prattling Gamp and a stern-faced Blishwick. Regulus was picking at his eggs with a gilded fork, eyes boring into the bowl of fruit that sat in the center of the table. He looked about a second away from smashing the bowl over Gamp’s head, and Grace felt it was probably in everyone’s best interest if she put a stop to the nuisance that was Gamp.

“...So, you see,” Gamp blathered on, “Mother has figured that the editor-and-chief _must_ be hiding something. And if it’s not his illegal stash of Nifflers, then it must be his ancestry—”

“Oi,” Grace said, approaching Gamp from behind. “Get up—you’re in my spot.”

Regulus twisted around and his grey eyes lit up as he caught sight of her. Several other Slytherins turned as well. The older students glanced at Grace before turning away, but all the first-years had their eyes fixed on her. She supposed they were either intrigued at the prospect of a fight between herself and Gamp or simply surprised that she had at last made an appearance in the Great Hall.

“What—” Gamp turned around, and his dull eyes widened, “—oh, it’s _you_.”

“Yeah, your worst nightmare,” Grace said cheerily. “Now, get up. This is my seat.”

Gamp pursed his lips. “How can it be _your_ seat? You don’t even eat here.”

“I snuck in before you even got off the boat and scrawled my name under the seat.” Grace pointed to the bench Gamp was currently sitting on. “Right under there, scratched into the wood, is my name. You can see it for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Several students were snickering—Fuentes and the Rosiers, amongst others—but Gamp didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at Grace suspiciously, light eyes squinting into her darker ones. “What do you mean?”

Grace gave a rather exasperated sigh. “Are you thick or something, Gamp? My name is right there—go on, have a look.”

“Where?” he demanded, and scuttled off the seat, peering at it. “Did you say it was under—” Grace slid into his now-vacant spot, “— _hey_!”

“I’d say if you’re dumb enough to fall for a trick like that, then you _deserve_ to have your seat taken,” Fuentes roared with laughter. She watched Gamp with bright eyes.

“Don’t be a prat,” Greengrass shot from the very end of the table, frowning at Fuentes. “It was an entertaining ploy, but no need to add insult to injury.”

“Did I _ask_ for your opinion, Greengrass?” Fuentes rolled her eyes.

“Well, of course not. The arrogant rarely seek input that isn’t their own,” Greengrass said loftily.

All trace of laughter disappeared from Fuentes in an instant. “You think I’m arrogant now, is it?” she snapped.

“I thought that was fairly obvious.” Greengrass pursed her lips. “Why else would you constantly be boasting about the strength of your Bat-Bogey? You know, Fuentes, the _more_ you talk about your supposedly _vast_ repertoire of hexes, the _less_ we believe you.”

“Is that so?” Fuentes drew her wand out. “Would you like a demonstration, then? I think you’d look absolutely marvelous with great big bats flying out your nostrils, Greengrass.”

McGonagall chose just that moment to pass by the Slytherin table with a stack of schedules to hand to Slughorn. She eyed Fuentes’s raised wand and quirked her brow. Fuentes hastily dropped her wand back into her pocket.

“Are you going to get up or what?” Grace twisted around and saw that Gamp was still there, staring at her crossly.

Grace reached for a piece of buttered toast. “Why would I do that?”

“Because—because—” he spluttered, voice pained, “—where am I supposed to sit now?”

“I think there’s a spot somewhere down there,” Blishwick said. He pointed at the very edge of the table, to a spot right next to the Rosier twins.

“If you sit next to me, Gamp, I’ll curse you into next week,” Myrcella said without even looking up from her magazine.

Her twin, Magnus, grinned. “By all means, Gamp, sit right here.” He moved over, allowing some space between himself and Myrcella. “I’ve been meaning to practice my stinging hex.”

Gamp paled and scuttled off to sit on the cusp of a group of third-years. They took a quick look at him—all raised brows and sneers—before turning back to their own conversation. Gamp shrunk into his sliver of a spot on the bench and miserably reached for a new plate.

“So, how’ve you been?” Grace asked, shifting back to Regulus. She stuffed her toast into her mouth and washed it down with a fresh goblet of pumpkin juice.

“Oh, I’m _great_. That was bloody brilliant,” he said, grinning. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to come down here and do something like that? Although—to be honest—I thought you’d work in the word ‘prat’ somewhere—”

“Hold that thought,” Grace said. She turned towards the group of third-years. “Oi—Gamp?”

“What?” he snapped.

“I forgot to mention you’re a prat.” She didn’t wait for his response and twisted back to Regulus. “Now what do you think?”

“Eleven out of ten,” he said easily. “If being a prat deterrent were a class, you’d get an O.”

“And if being a prat magnet were a class, you’d get an O.” Grace scooped some baked beans onto a plate and dipped a fresh slice of toast into the puddle. “We all have our strengths, I suppose.”

“You think being a prat magnet is a strength?”

Grace laughed. “No, you’re right. It’s not. It’s more like a—”

“Major inconvenience?”

“Yeah,” Grace said. “We’ve got to fix that.”

“I think it might just be a part of my personality,” Regulus sighed, scratching his fork against his plate.

“I think it’s an effect of your personality. You just need to stick up for yourself more. If you don’t want prats around you, you’ve got to tell them to go away.”

“Easy for you to say. It just comes naturally to you.”

“Yeah, well—” Grace eyed the Gryffindor table, “—I’ve had eleven years’ worth of practice.”

Regulus followed her line of sight. “Have you—” his voice dropped to a whisper, “—spoken to your brother since, you know—”

“Ah, Miss Potter!” a jovial voice called out.

Grace and Regulus both started. Grace looked away from Regulus, and saw Slughorn making his way through the Slytherin table, a large pile of timetables clutched in one of his hands. The other hand was gripping a silken handkerchief, which he was using to dab at his forehead. His smile widened once Grace caught sight of him, and he passed over Wilkinson and Blishwick entirely in his haste to reach her.

“Er, Professor?” Wilkinson said. “You didn’t give us a—”

“I see you’ve decided to skip your usual routine in the library,” Slughorn said merrily once he reached Grace, ignoring Wilkinson completely.

“What— _oh_ —right,” Grace nodded vigorously. “Well, I thought I might need a break.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Slughorn nodded enthusiastically, stuffing his handkerchief into his robe pocket. Blishwick rose from his spot on the bench and attempted to snatch a timetable from the pile in Slughorn’s grasp. Unfortunately for the boy, Slughorn moved the stack to his other hand just at that moment. “After all, a moment of rest and relaxation often leads to the greatest of discoveries. Did you know, for instance, that Jareth Aulden—a very old, very dear student of mine—stumbled upon the cure for Scrofungulus while on vacation?”

“Uh—” Grace glanced at Regulus, who seemed just as perplexed by Slughorn’s appearance, “—yeah. Sometimes it’s good to clear your head…?”

“Yes, a break now and again is very important,” Slughorn agreed. “And what better way to relax than at a Slug Club meeting?”

“Oh, Merlin,” Grace muttered under her breath. Regulus shot her a warning look.

“We’ll be having another one this weekend. _The Prophet’s_ editor-in-chief—Barnabas Cuffe, as you know—will be stopping by. You missed our first-year get-together back in September, but I suppose you must have been overcome with work then due to your late arrival.” Behind Slughorn, Wilkinson had begun attempting to _Wingardium Leviosa_ a timetable for himself. “In any case, I’m hoping you’ll be able to join us this weekend.”

Grace had never been more glad to be have been stuck in the Hospital Wing for the past couple of days. “Oh, that sounds lovely, Professor, really—” Regulus rolled his eyes discreetly, “—but I’ve only just been released from the Hospital Wing, and I’ve got quite a lot of work to catch up on now. I’ll try to stop by if I’ve got time.”

“I see,” Slughorn said, crestfallen. Just as Wilkinson had gotten the first timetable sheet to float up a half-centimeter, Slughorn took it in his hand to pass to Grace. Wilkinson threw his wand onto the table in frustration. It bounced off the mahogany and landed in a mound of sausages. “Well—no matter—there are plenty more meetings to come.” He passed another timetable to Regulus. “I’ll see you two in class today.”

“Er—Professor?” Blishwick called out hopefully. “We didn’t get—”

Slughorn waddled off to a group of third-years. “Ah, Mr. McLaggen! I heard that your uncle has gotten his hands on a rare species of mooncalf, but I suppose you’ve heard all about that, haven’t you?”

“That man baffles me,” Regulus said once Slughorn was out of earshot. “How is he a professor? You could find Chudley Cannon fans more impartial than him.”

“I’ve honestly got no idea.” Grace’s gaze shifted back to Regulus. She looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve got to ask you a serious question, by the way.”

He blinked. “Okay, fine, but I’ve got some conditions. Whatever you’re planning can’t involve dangerous explosives—”

Grace rolled her eyes. “It’s just a _question_ , Regulus.”

“What is it?”

“Do you know a charm that can make owl droppings fall on James?”

“I—what?” Regulus stared at Grace, equal parts confused and aghast. “No, no I don’t know a spell that can do that.”

“Damn.”

“Can I ask _why_ you need a spell like that?”

“Yeah,” Grace said, and then waited patiently for him to ask.

Regulus pursed his lips. “So _why_ —”

“Remember how I told you I tackled James the other day and called him a wanker and then insulted his prized possession?”

“Yeah,” Regulus said wearily. “Not exactly the most measured response to finding out your brother knew you were in Slytherin all along.”

“Well I was hardly going to congratulate him for knowing all along,” Grace snipped.

“Have you spoken to him?” Regulus asked. His eyes flickered towards the Gryffindor table as well. “If you want, I can ask Sirius to talk to him—”

“No, absolutely _not_.” The corners of Grace’s mouth quirked downwards. “Sirius is on my revenge list as well.”

Regulus’s forehead creased in worry. “ _Please_ don’t tell me you’re engaged in some sort of feud now—”

“I think I am.” Grace rose in her seat slightly and peered over the heads of students. She just barely spotted James, who stuck out like a pole amongst his shorter companions. He was hurriedly scribbling something on parchment—either he was finishing his homework or was sketching some sort of dastardly plan to get back at Grace. “I mean, I’m definitely going to get revenge—”

“Revenge for what exactly?” Regulus said. “Your brother didn’t really do anything.”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Grace took a vicious bite of her toast. “He knew and didn’t do a single blasted thing. I mean—who does that? Who doesn’t seek out their little sister after their first couple of days at Hogwarts?”

“You were hiding from him,” Regulus reminded her.

“All the more reason for him to have found me,” Grace said readily. “Surely that should have tipped him off that something was off.”

Regulus weighed this in his mind for a moment. He took a long sip of pumpkin juice. “I suppose you’re right on that count.”

“See,” Grace said smugly. “So it’s well within my right to get back at him.”

“And he’s going to get back at you, isn’t he?” Regulus glanced at the Gryffindors’ table. “Oh, Salazar, and my brother, too.”

“Oh, yeah—big time. He told me to ‘watch out.’”

Regulus slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. “It’s just one thing after another with you!”

“Don’t complain,” Grace chided. “I got rid of Gamp for you.”

“That’s really great, Grace, really,” Regulus said sarcastically. “You know what’s not going to be great, though? Tomorrow morning—when we get hit with Dungbombs from a squadron of Hogwarts owls.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Grace promised.

“Why not?”

“Because there won’t be any Hogwarts owls left for James or Sirius to use for tomorrow,” she said, and grinned when she saw Regulus’s brows furrow. “I’m taking all of them—every single one—and attaching a Howler to each one.”

“Merlin’s pants,” Regulus breathed. “ _Why_? Just— _why_?”

“If I send James only one, he’ll destroy it before it gets a chance to do its job. If I send him, say, one hundred—well—he won’t manage to destroy them _all_. It’s too many. I imagine he’ll get his friends to help him—I dunno—set fire to as many Howlers as possible. But I think at least half will manage to explode open and scream at him.”

“You do realize this will be happening in the Great Hall, right? Basically, your plan is to let nearly a hundred Howlers burst open and let out a cacophony of screams. We’ll _all_ be subjected to that.”

“Yeah, but it’ll all be directed at James.”

“I—it’s just—what if our eardrums shatter? It’s a _hundred_ Howlers.”

“Fine, shall I do ninety-nine?”

He stared at her, unimpressed. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Thank you,” Grace said primly. “Could you pass me one of those sausages?”

Regulus reached over and pushed the whole platter of sausages towards Grace. “What if you get detention? For taking up all the Hogwarts owls and then disrupting the Great Hall during breakfast?”

“How’re they going to know it was me?” Grace challenged. “It could have been anyone. I’m sure James and Sirius have racked up quite the number of enemies in the past year. Surely there’s someone who has it out for them.”

Regulus considered this. “Yeah, Sirius told me this Ravenclaw, Aubrey I think, has it out for him. There’s a Slytherin he absolutely hates, too—Snivellus or something.”

Grace brightened. “Oh, yeah! I’ve heard of that git. James told me he’s like a walking ball of grease—” Regulus snorted, “—or something like that. What if we pinned it on him?”

“Who? Aubrey or Snivellus?”

Grace shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe we can make it seem like it was both so neither one really gets in trouble. Either way, we’ve got to make it seem like it wasn’t us.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Regulus started, “but…you’re using the words ‘we’ and ‘us’ an awful lot.”

“What? You don’t want to help?”

“I—” Regulus sighed, “—well I think it would be interesting to make ninety-nine Howlers and see what happens. But I don’t want to get in trouble. What if my parents find out?”

“Don’t worry—”

“Not likely,” Regulus interjected.

“—your parents won’t find out,” Grace finished. “If, somehow, all the Howlers get traced back to us, I’ll take the blame. There’s no reason both of us should suffer for it.”

Regulus struggled with something for a moment. “Well—but—that’s not exactly fair, is it?”

Grace shrugged. “I dunno about that. I mean, it’s my insane plan, isn’t it?”

“That’s true.” He took a short pause, scooping up the last of his scrambled eggs. “Alright, I’m in. What do you want me to do?”

Grace could make the ninety-nine Howlers herself. It might take the whole day, but she was confident she could finish it by nightfall. After all, each Howler wouldn’t contain more than a phrase. Something along the lines of _must be tough being a knobhead all day long, huh?_ or _perhaps this will give you insight into what an owl is used for_. Either way, she could cobble together all the Howlers she needed.

What she couldn’t do was set foot in the Owlery. She wasn’t allowed to be near even _one_ owl for an extended period of time, so being in a confined space with hundreds of them for long enough to attach ninety-nine letters was probably out of the question. And although Grace was almost certain that the Healer who had advised she be kept away from owls was a charlatan, she didn’t want to test the theory anytime soon. She had only _just_ been released from the Hospital Wing and she wasn’t eager to go back anytime soon.

“I can make the Howlers,” Grace said. “Do you mind attaching them to the owls early tomorrow morning?”

“Er—okay. What’ll you be doing while I do that?”

“I’ll keep guard outside the Owlery,” Grace decided very quickly. She would still be with Regulus but not in a way that she’d be near the owls.

Regulus seemed comforted by that thought. “That’s a good idea.”

“All my ideas are good ideas.”

Regulus snorted. “Yeah, because hiding from your brother for two months turned out so well for you.”

Grace rolled her eyes as she took a bite of another sausage. “Careful, now—I might just send you a Howler, too.”

“Ha, ha,” he said very sarcastically, pushing away his empty plate. “If you do that, I’ll send you a fleet of Dungbomb-carrying owls myself.”

Grace wrinkled her nose. “Do you really think James and Sirius would drop Dungbombs on the Slytherin table?”

“Yes,” Regulus said flatly. “They must’ve done something to earn their detentions.”

Grace considered this. “You’re right. They wouldn’t have gotten a hundred and fifty detentions apiece if they hadn’t done something drastic.”

Regulus nearly spat out his pumpkin juice. “I’m sorry—did you say _a hundred and fifty_?”

“I was just exaggerating—”

“Oh, good—”

“I think it’s actually like a hundred and three or something—”

“ _A hundred and three_ —” Regulus looked like he might be in the midst of a heart attack, “—are you _serious_? They got that many detentions?”

“Well, I dunno the exact number, but I’d say it’s somewhere in that range. They broke the record for most detentions ever served by a first-year, I think.”

“Salazar,” Regulus breathed. “I—do I even _know_ Sirius?”

“Your parents are strict, right?” Grace said, reaching for a jam pastry.

“Not _strict_ ,” Regulus protested uneasily. “They’ve just got high expectations.”

“Sure,” Grace granted. “And I’m assuming getting a hundred and three detentions wouldn’t really meet those high expectations.”

“Yeah, probably not.”

“So that’s likely why you don’t know. Sirius just doesn’t want your parents finding out what all he’s been up to.” Grace shrugged. “I don’t really think there’s anything wrong with it—”

“Yes, there is,” Regulus said immediately. His lips were twisted into a bitter little frown. “He didn’t tell _me_.”

“Oh,” Grace said, and her brows furrowed. “Yeah. That’s weird.”

“He always tells me stuff. I think.” Regulus glowered at his goblet. “He told me all about Aubrey and that Snivellus boy. And he told me about your brother. But he never told me about Easter holiday or the detentions. And—that’s not right, is it? I tell him everything, because I thought that’s what we do. That’s what we’ve always done. Or so I thought.”

“Would you like to send him a Howler?” Grace offered.

“No, but if you figure out that owl droppings spell….”

Grace grinned. “I’ll work on it.”

* * *

After breakfast, word of Grace’s little trick on Gamp began to spread to all the first-years. Snickers and taunts followed Gamp everywhere. The Gryffindors in particular were reveling in Gamp’s gullibility. “Oi, Gamp!” one of them had called half-way through Potions. “Heard if you look up at the ceiling, you’ll find your mum’s name scrawled in cursive.”

By the time the Slytherins reached their last class of the day, Transfiguration, Gamp was surly and quiet, sticking to the shadows. He took a seat in the far corner of the Transfiguration classroom, out of the Ravenclaws’ sight. It was a stark change from the blathering boy Grace was so used to seeing, and she felt a little bit bad about how out of hand the joke had gotten.

“I thought it was funny,” Regulus said when Grace brought it up.

She settled besides him at the front of the classroom and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. “It was funny when I did it, because it was the first time. But now it’s just annoying. There wasn’t any need to drag it on past breakfast.”

“It’s okay,” Regulus consoled. “It’ll die down by tomorrow.”

“I hope so.” Grace glanced at a sullen Gamp before shifting her gaze back to McGonagall, who was scrawling something on the board. “I don’t want him to form some sort of lifelong hatred for me. I’ve got enough enemies as it is.”

“Enemies?”

“Yeah, James—”

“That’s your _brother_ , not your _enemy_.”

“Sounds like you just said the same word twice, Regulus,” Grace said flatly, copying down the spell McGonagall was writing.

“We’ll be continuing turning mice into snuffboxes today,” McGonagall announced. “The incantation and wand movement is on the blackboard for your referral. If one person from each pair can come up and collect your mice….”

Regulus went up and brought back two mice—one black-and-white and one ashen grey—for himself and Grace. He tapped his wand against his mouse’s head and muttered the spell under his breath. It immediately transformed into an intricate, gilded snuffbox.

McGonagall passed by their table as she examined other students’ work. She nodded her approval when she caught sight of Regulus’s snuffbox. “Very nice, Mr. Black. Take five points for Slytherin.”

Regulus beamed.

“Merlin,” Grace said, staring at his snuffbox. The grey mouse was wriggling furiously in her hands. “How long have you been practicing that for?”

“Well, you only got out of the Hospital Wing this morning. I had a lot of free time for the past couple of days.”

“Alright—will you help me, then?” Grace set her mouse on her table. It immediately scampered away. “No—bollocks—!”

“Hold on, I’ve got it,” Regulus said, creating a wall between the edge of the desk and mouse with his textbook.

The grey mouse whimpered, halting momentarily as it tried to figure out another way to escape. Grace took the opportunity to gather the mouse in her hands. She waved her wand over the rodent and repeated the spell from the blackboard. A spark of purple light burst from the end of her wand, and the mouse turned gold.

But it was still a mouse.

“Oh, come on,” Grace complained. “Have you got your notes from last class?”

“Yeah, here,” Regulus said, pulling out a scroll of parchment.

Grace traded away her unhappy golden mouse for it. The mouse squeaked in protest as it was swapped for Regulus’s notes. Grace unfurled the scroll and bit back a groan as she was met with paragraphs and paragraphs about the snuffbox spell. She was fairly certain that McGonagall had only gone over a quarter of the information Regulus had compiled. Despite this, Grace started to read from the very top. If she was to ever catch up on all the classes she had missed, she would need every last sentence Regulus had written.

By the time class ended, Grace had managed to vanish her mouse’s whiskers, embed floral patterns into its fur, and change its color from gold to silver. But she did not manage to transform it into a snuffbox.

“This is ridiculous,” Grace huffed as class ended and her last attempt proved futile. The mouse had long grown accustomed to Grace. It was now huddled in the center of her parchment, curled into a ball, beady eyes staring down Grace boredly.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Regulus promised. “We can practice tonight.”

“But I’ve got to practice the smokescreen spell for Defense, too,” Grace said bitterly. She gingerly moved her mouse of her parchment. “And I’ve got to go over the properties of Devil’s Snare so I can catch up on Herbology. _And_ Flitwick just taught us that new spell today.”

“Miss Potter, your mouse?” McGonagall said. The professor had a shoebox in her hands. Grace sighed as she gathered her mouse into hands and dropped it into the box. It squeaked up at her indignantly. “If you’ve a moment after class, I’d like to speak to you privately.”

Grace’s eyes shot up. McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a thin, firm line as per usual. She didn’t seem particularly disappointed or upset, but it was always hard to tell exactly what the old Transfiguration professor was feeling. Grace only hoped she wouldn’t be scolded too badly.

“Er—okay,” Grace said. When McGonagall moved on to the next group, Grace turned to Regulus uneasily. “Do you think I’m in trouble?”

“For not managing to get the spell to work?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Regulus said readily. “I don’t think any professor here would be upset if a student didn’t manage to perform a spell. Professors are supposed to help students, after all.”

“Do you think McGonagall is going to help me, then?” Grace’s eyes flickered to the stern woman. She wasn’t particularly keen on having the strict Transfiguration professor assist her. Grace imagined a one-on-one tutoring session with McGonagall would consist mostly of sharp criticisms and some point deductions from Slytherin.

“Er—I dunno,” Regulus said. His eyes followed McGonagall, who was currently berating a Ravenclaw whose snuffbox still had whiskers. “If so…good luck.”

“Thanks,” Grace said sourly.

“Here, keep my notes. It might help you figure out what McGonagall’s talking about, if she does decide to help you.” Regulus pushed the scroll towards Grace. “Do you want me to wait for you outside class?”

“No. It’ll probably take me a while to get the hang of this spell. I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Okay,” Regulus nodded. He gathered his things and filed out of the classroom with some of the other Slytherins.

As Grace waited for the rest of the class to filter out, she skimmed over Regulus’s notes. She wasn’t quite sure if she would be able to get anything more out of them. She now knew the etymology, history, and modern applications of the mouse-to-snuffbox spell. What she really needed to do was practice the spell, not read more about it.

“Miss Potter?” McGonagall called once the classroom was empty save for the two of them. She was seated at her desk, a piece of parchment in her hands.

“Yes?” Grace said nervously, rising from her desk and padding towards McGonagall.

The shoebox was on the left of McGonagall’s desk. In it, Grace’s mouse was still scurrying about, silver with fleur-de-lis patterns pressed into its fur. It peered up at her suspiciously before seeming to decide Grace wasn’t about to misfire another spell and curling up in the corner of the box. Grace frowned as she noticed another box on McGonagall’s desk, which was full to the brim with snuffboxes. Some of them were less shiny than others; some still had a tail peeking out of the keyhole; and some were rather banged up. But at least they were all snuffboxes.

Merlin, was she the only one who hadn’t gotten a hang of this ridiculous spell? Why did first-years even need to turn mice into snuffboxes? When was that ever going to come in handy?

“The Headmaster tasked me with finding you a tutor at the very beginning of the year,” McGonagall said. Her voice was curt and businesslike. Grace’s eyes flew away from the boxes and locked onto the professor’s stern face. “I had thought perhaps our Head Girl or Head Boy would be best suited in helping you catch up with your studies, but—” McGonagall sighed, “—Professor Dumbledore has insisted that it would be more prudent if we did not pile _more_ duties onto the Head Girl and Head Boy.”

“Oh,” Grace said. She bit the inside of her cheek, and furiously hoped that McGonagall had not taken it upon herself to do the tutoring.

“As such, he has requested me to find a suitable second-year—” Grace let out a breath of relief, “—instead.” McGonagall glanced down at her parchment. “I’ve informed one of my second-years—Lily—to meet you in the library today after dinner for your first tutoring session. Each session is to last two hours. I’ve suggested that you go over the snuffbox spell—” McGonagall peered down at Grace, “—as well as anything else you’re having trouble with at the moment. Madam Pince will be overlooking the sessions to ensure that you stay the full two hours.”

Grace’s nose wrinkled slightly. She rather detested Pince. The librarian was always hovering about Grace whenever she went to collect a book from one of the shelves, as though Grace was going to steal the book instead of merely read it.

“Okay,” Grace said. “That sounds good. I’ll head down after dinner. Thanks, Professor.”

McGonagall nodded primly. “Of course. I do hope you’ll take these sessions seriously, Miss Potter—”

A scowl was burgeoning across Grace’s lips. Why was it nearly every professor said something like that to her? Even Slughorn had thought she was some sort of slacker before she had proved her worth in class.

“—it’s imperative that you catch up as quickly and efficiently as possible. We’ll be moving on to a new spell next class, and it will do you no favors if you’re stuck a lesson behind.”

“I will.” And because the anger she felt towards James was ever-lingering, because she could not help herself, she added, “I’m not like my brother.”

Both of McGonagall’s brows rose. She stared down at Grace for one very long moment, and Grace felt her cheeks warm.

“I didn’t say you were,” McGonagall said, and her voice was significantly less harsh this time.

* * *

“I can’t believe McGonagall assigned you a tutor that isn’t me,” Regulus said incredulously as he walked Grace to the library. “I’ve been writing down all the homework you’ve missed for the past two days!”

“Would you stop yelling about how I’ve got a tutor?” Grace hissed. “I don’t need Greengrass to feel justified in thinking I’m some sort of moron. And, in case you didn’t hear, my tutor’s a _second-year_. It needs to be someone older.”

“I’m older,” Regulus huffed. “I was born in February.”

“Regulus, my birthday is in January.”

“Oh,” he said. “I thought probability was on my side on that one. Most people are born in the second half of the year.”

“Nah, luck favors me,” Grace said absentmindedly as they crossed the threshold of the library. There were only a few students around—Ravenclaws, as always—and Pince was at her usual spot behind the checkout counter, watching the passing students with a hawk’s eye.

“Does it?” Regulus contested. “You shattered your knees and now you’re stuck with some _second-rate_ tutor—”

“Merlin, if I knew you’d be so offended, I wouldn’t have told you,” Grace muttered. “It’s not like I asked for a tutor, either.”

Her eyes wavered over the couple of Ravenclaws. They all seemed to be in fourth-year or above, so Grace figured none of them were supposed to be her tutor—Lily, was it? Grace meandered towards a free table near the corner of the library, as far away from Pince as possible. She draped her knapsack over the table and flung herself onto one of the seats.

“Is your tutor not here yet?” Regulus, settling in besides her.

Grace stared at him. “Are you going to be here, too?”

“Er—yes?”

“No,” Grace said immediately, narrowing her eyes. “No, you’re not going to be here. It’s embarrassing enough that I’ve got to have a tutor. I’m not going to have you sit next to me and watch me bungle my way through all the new spells you’ve already mastered.”

“I wouldn’t say _mastered_ ,” Regulus said hesitantly.

“I would.” Grace nudged his chair away from her. “Go on—go to the dungeons and read up on Devil’s Snare or something. Feed Cliodna some of those new kneazle nibbits you got.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“But what if your tutor’s no good?” Regulus said. “And you’re stuck here for two hours but you don’t get anything out of it?”

“Then I’ll be swinging by the Slytherin boy’s dorm later tonight and accosting you in your bed. We’ll spend the night trying to turn Gamp into a snuffbox.”

“You _know_ we can’t do that—”

Grace sighed. “Yeah, we’d get like a month’s worth of detention.”

“No, we literally _can’t_ do that. That spell only works on animate and inanimate things with low mass, because of the transformation formula—”

“Oh, right,” Grace said. “I think I remember that from your notes.”

“Well, at least you read them,” Regulus said. He rose from his chair. “Do you really want me to go?”

“I’ll see you later,” Grace promised. “I doubt my tutor and I will be able to cover everything I’ve missed, so I’ll definitely have to practice _something_ with you tonight.”

This seemed to please Regulus. Grace was beginning to suspect that Regulus was running out of work to do. It seemed he was such a perfectionist that he was now working on turning Grace into one.

“Alright,” Regulus said, and lifted his bag. “Just don’t throw any stink pellets if you come into the boy’s dormitory. Rosier wanted to hex you last time.”

“Don’t worry,” Grace said and grinned slyly. “It’s already stinky enough.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and padded away, leaving Grace alone at the table. As the minutes passed by, a few more students meandered into the library. They were all older students, however—sixth-years and seventh-years with bags under their eyes and cups of coffee hidden in the many folds of their robes. They all avoided Pince and went straight to the very back of the library, near the Restricted Section.

Just as Grace was beginning to wonder if her tutor had forgotten about her, she caught sight of a pair of students about her own age, a girl and a boy, a Gryffindor and a Slytherin. The girl looked like a poster child for Gryffindor—thick, curling scarlet locks framing a ruddy face with bright green eyes—and, right next to her, seemed to be the epitome of James’s vision of a Slytherin. The boy on the girl’s right was thin and tall, with greasy hair that hung to his neck and sallow skin. His lips were twisted into a frown while the girl’s were spread into a large grin, and Grace was baffled as to how the two could possibly be friends. Sorting aside, they both seemed to be complete opposites.

“I’ve got to meet the student McGonagall assigned me here,” the girl said. Her voice was warm. “I’ll see you later, Sev.”

“Alright,” the boy said. “Bye, Lily.”

As the Slytherin boy turned to leave, Grace’s tutor—Lily—caught sight of Grace in the far reach of the library and immediately started forward. Grace shrunk into her chair. She was sure McGonagall wouldn’t have chosen anyone mean or rude to be her tutor, but she was apprehensive about how her tutor might treat her. Would Lily jeer at her for not being able to turn a mouse into a snuffbox? Just like how all those Gryffindors had teased and taunted Gamp throughout the day?

“Hullo,” Lily said, and there was an easygoing smile plastered to her face. Her crimson hair was twisted into a neat plait, and her eyes were so bright they seemed like two emeralds. “You’re the only one here that looks like a first-year, so I reckon you’re the one I’ve got to tutor? I think McGonagall said your name was Grace?”

“Yeah,” Grace said. “Hi.”

Lily took a seat across from Grace. Her smile didn’t waver in the slightest and Grace found herself relaxing in her seat. “So, what’ve you got trouble with? I suppose Transfiguration, right? Because otherwise McGonagall wouldn’t have been so insistent about starting these sessions immediately. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but—” Lily’s voice dropped to a whisper, “—she tends to favor her own subject.”

“Really?” Grace’s brows furrowed. She had thought McGonagall to be the most objective of all the Hogwarts professors.

“Oh, yeah,” Lily nodded. “There’s this massive prick in my year, but McGonagall’s partial to him just because he’s got some talent for Transfiguration.” Lily rolled her eyes. “It’s bollocks when you think about it, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Grace said, leaning forward. “Slughorn kind of does that, too. Potions is my best subject, and he keeps bombarding me with these Slug Club invitations.”

Lily let out a loud laugh. It was a wild, unfettered thing, full of warmth and delight, and Grace found herself drawn to her tutor’s amiable energy. McGonagall had done a rather good job, after all. “Yeah, that’s rather annoying, isn’t it? I’ll tell you what, I can try get Slughorn to ease up on that. Potions is my best subject, too. Well—next to Charms.”

“Could you really?” Grace said, eyes wide.

“Definitely,” Lily smiled. “I’ve managed to convince him to host Slug Club get-togethers whenever I’ve got History of Magic, so I think I can persuade him to give you some space.” Lily pulled out a scroll of parchment from her bag. “Now, I think we should get started on some actual tutoring before Pince catches on.”

“Okay,” Grace said, pulling out her own piece of parchment. A grin slipped across her face when she saw Lily pull out one of those pens Cresswell had been using instead of a quill. “Oh—you’ve got a pen!”

“Huh—oh—yeah,” Lily said, and for the first time, her eyes flickered towards the Slytherin crest emblazoned on Grace’s robe. “They’re just easier to use.”

“Yeah,” Grace agreed. “I’ve been trying to get one of those, but every time I try to ask Cresswell—he’s one of my—er—he’s my Defense partner. Anyway, every time I ask him if I can have one, he says it costs a thousand Galleons or something.”

Lily laughed her full laugh. “That hilarious! I should’ve figured Dirk would pull some or the other nonsense like that. Here—” Lily gave Grace her own pen, “—you can have this one. I’ve got loads.”

Grace took the pen like it really did cost a thousand Galleons. “Thanks,” she breathed, fingers curling around the plastic. Her eyes flickered to Lily’s bemused face. Merlin—wait till she told Regulus that her tutor was the _coolest_ student in Hogwarts.

“So,” Lily said, drawing Grace away from the euphoria of finally owning her own pen, “shall we start with the snuffbox spell? I’ll just go over the theory for a bit, and we can just practice trying to turn the textbook into a snuffbox.”

“Okay,” Grace agreed.

The first hour of their tutoring session passed by swiftly. Lily, to Grace’s immense delight, was a wonderful tutor. The redhead peppered in the odd joke now and again, just to make sure that Grace didn’t lose focus, and she was anything but impatient. After the fifth time Grace didn’t manage to turn her textbook into a snuffbox, Lily didn’t seem the slightest bit frustrated. Instead, she suggested that Grace try a different wand technique. After a few more attempts, Grace was—at last—able to transfigure something into a snuffbox. Sure, the snuffbox was a bit rusty, but at least it was a snuffbox.

“I think that’s enough for that,” Lily said, beaming. She transfigured the snuffbox back into its original form. “You’ve just got to practice the spell a bit more. Remember to envision the final result in your head. Your wand channels that vision into reality.” Grace nodded vigorously, scribbling all this down with her new pen. “Is there another subject you’re having trouble with?”

“Yeah,” Grace sighed. “I’m behind in Defense. They learned the smokescreen spell while I was in the Hospital Wing, and we’ve got a demonstration on it the next time we have Defense.”

Lily let out a breath. “Yeah, Defense has been rather rough this year. I don’t think Sanderson’s going to last, if I’m being honest. A lot of older students have been complaining about the workload. It’s just not feasible to keep up all the work he assigns us on top of everything else.”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded. “Doesn’t he know we’ve got other classes?”

“I know, right!” Lily sighed. “In any case, we can go over the theory and technique for the smokescreen spell, but I don’t think Pince would really appreciate it if we filled up the library with—”

“Evans!” a loud, brash voice called out. “Er—sorry, Madam Pince.”

Grace’s jaw clenched as the owner of the voice came into view. She threw down her pen and crossed her arms, staring stonily at her brother as he appeared around the corner of the bookshelf.

To Grace’s surprise, Lily’s wide smile turned into a deep frown in an instant. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

“Ah, I thought I heard your dulcet tones,” James smirked, sauntering towards their table. His eyes flew from Lily to Grace, and the smile disappeared. James came to a stop. “Oh.”

“Go away,” Grace ordered, “if you know what’s good for you.”

Lily’s brows rose, and her mouth twitched upwards.

“It’s the _library_ ,” James shot back. “I’m allowed to be here just as much as you are. I’ve got a book to find.”

“That’s funny. I didn’t think you knew how to read, seeing as your head has been stuck up your arse since the beginning of time.”

James’s eyes narrowed at her. “You’d know all about my arse, wouldn’t you, Grace? Seeing as you’ve been a gigantic pain in it—”

“Potter,” Lily cut in, and her voice was harder than granite. “Don’t you have something better to do instead of insulting first-years?”

“I just came for a book,” James said defensively. “Besides, she started it.”

“God, you’re such a _child_ ,” Lily frowned. “Get your book and leave us alone. You’re interrupting our tutoring session.”

Grace wished Lily hadn’t let that slip. The effect was instantaneous. James let out a harsh laugh and turned to Grace, jeering. “ _Tutoring_ , Gracie? Merlin—I knew you didn’t have a handle on your magic, but—”

Grace rose from her chair like a whip. “Why’re you here all of a sudden?” she demanded. “You couldn’t be bothered to find me for the first two months I was at Hogwarts, and suddenly you’re popping up all over the place?”

“ _You_ couldn’t be bothered to get out of whatever rock it was you were hiding under for the past two months. _I’ve_ been here the whole time. If you’d only decided to step out of that slimy snakepit you Slytherins call a home—”

“Oi,” Lily protested. “Potter—”

“Oh, butt out, Evans,” James said exasperatedly.

Lily fixed a glare on James so venomous that Grace was honestly surprised that James didn’t cower away and leave right there and then.

“Don’t insult her,” Grace said readily, scowling at James. “You’re the one who’s being a prat.”

“Oh, how sweet,” James said with heavy sarcasm. “The failing student comes to the defense of her tutor.”

The grip Grace had around her wand increased exponentially. “I’m not _failing_ , you pillock!”

“If anyone’s the pillock here, it’s you, since you need a _tutor_ of all things.”

“If you don’t leave us alone, I’m going to write Mum and—”

“You won’t,” James said, and his sneer grew wider, “because then you’ll have to tell Mum and Dad you’re being _tutored_.”

“Wait, are you two—?” Lily’s eyes flickered between the two of them, and the intensity of her glare lessened slightly. She shook her head. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to go get Pince.” Lily rose from the table. She turned towards James, lips twisted into a grimace. “I hope she gives you detention.”

Grace and James ignored her entirely.

“I’ve been stuck in the Hospital Wing, you humongous git,” Grace bit out. “I’ve missed two days’ worth of classes, so of course I need help. Merlin, you’re so—so—”

“Forgotten how to speak English, too?”

“You’re such a _child_ ,” Grace said, borrowing Lily’s words.

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you _think_ it means?” James said, and the teasing disappeared from his voice. His tone was stiff and irritated. “You were playing some inane game of hide-and-seek for the better part of two months. If anyone’s the child here, it’s you.”

Grace bristled. “I’m not!”

“Yes, you are! And you’re a prat to boot. And—you know what?—I’m glad you never got an owl. You don’t deserve one.”

It was the last straw. The grasp Grace had around her wand was so tight that it was a miracle the sliver of wood hadn’t broken yet. She raised her wand and pointed it right at James. “ _Flipendo!_ ”

James dodged the jinx. It hit a towering shelf of books, which immediately fell over and knocked into the next shelf of books. Grace winced as a couple of heavy textbooks collided against her shoulders. She moved towards the back wall, away from the shower of books. James had rolled away, too, although Grace wasn’t exactly sure where he had gone. She could only see Pince, who was standing at the other end of the library with an open-mouthed Lily. Pince’s lips were drawn into a vicious snarl, and she had her own wand out, eyes wandering over the expanse of the library in search of the student that had collapsed nearly half of the library.

Grace slunk away from the wall, trying to move out of Pince’s sight. With some luck, she could travel around the perimeter of the library and sneak right out the front entrance.

But just as she took a step towards the left, James shot up from behind the fallen bookcase, eyes ablaze. He shouted his own spell, one that Grace didn’t recognize, and she ducked as a bright streak of orange spat out the end of his wand. It struck the scarlet curtains that adorned the large window above Grace, and—to both Grace and James’s utter horror—set the fabric ablaze.

“Oh—” Grace began.

“—fuck,” James finished.

They looked at each other and said at the same time: “This is all _your_ fault—”

“ _What_?” Grace shrieked. “ _My_ fault? I’m not the one who set fire to the bloody curtains am I?”

The fire was growing steadily stronger. It had travelled up the expanse of the curtain, and was now carrying over to the next window’s drapes. The whole of the library was flush with a golden light. An intolerable heat swept over the room, but neither Grace nor James seemed to notice in the slightest.

“If you weren’t such a prat with such pratastic expectations—” James started.

“If you didn’t have your head stuck up your own arsehole, if you’d only considered feelings other than your own—” Grace picked up just as easily.

“Potter!” a new voice screeched, overshadowing both Grace and James’s cries.

“What?” both Grace and James spat, twisting to the source of the voice.

It was McGonagall. Her eyes were wide and furious. They flickered between James and Grace before landing on the trailing fire. She raised one bony hand and, with a flick of her wand, a jet of water flew from the end of her wand, extinguishing the flames.

“ _Never_ ,” McGonagall seethed, gaze returning to the siblings, “have I seen such a reckless display of magic. _Never_ have I seen two students so willingly disregard the safety of the school.”

“He started it,” Grace said immediately.

At the very same time, James said, “She started it.”

“Detention,” McGonagall said, every syllable saturated with rage, “every night for the next two weeks. James—my office, at nine o’clock. If you are late, I will _double_  the amount of time—”

“See what you’ve got me into now?” James said, twisting to Grace immediately. “You always manage to go ahead and botch up—”

“It’s hardly my fault you’re such a git,” Grace bit out. “Besides, you’re the one who started the fire—”

“You shot the other spell! _And_ you insulted me—”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize your ego was so fragile—”

“You’re such a _prat_ —”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“What a classic prat move—”

“Enough!” McGonagall said. Her voice rose an octave. “If you two so much as utter another word, I will extend both your detentions to the end of term.” McGonagall’s eyes flew over Grace and James. The siblings didn’t meet her gaze; each was glaring stonily at the other. “Miss Potter, you will serve your detentions with Professor Slughorn. I will notify him accordingly. Report to his office at nine o’clock sharp.” McGonagall pursed her lips. “The two of you will assist Madam Pince in reorganizing the library until then. Am I understood?”

Neither of them said anything.

“Well?” McGonagall demanded.

“What?” James bit. “You said we couldn’t say a word.”

McGonagall took a very deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. Grace suppressed another verbal taunt— _read the room, you twat_ —at the risk of earning yet another detention. She steamed silently as McGonagall directed them towards Pince. Why in Godric’s good name had she even _spoken_ to James in the Hospital Wing? She’d been perfectly fine without him. Barely two days had elapsed since she’d stopped avoiding him and now she was behind in three classes, had nearly been set on fire, and needed to complete two weeks’ worth of detention.

She trod behind James as they made their way to a fuming Pince, scowling at his back and resolving to send her Howlers as soon as daylight broke.


	9. Pale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James retaliates, Avery is surprisingly helpful, and Grace experiences something out of the ordinary.

“I don’t understand,” Regulus yawned into the sleeve of his robes. His voice was slightly muffled by the fabric. “Did you start the fire before or after you knocked down all the books?”

Regulus was taking the destruction of the Hogwarts library rather well for someone who spent nearly half his time there. Grace supposed it had something to do with the fact that he wasn’t really processing whatever it was she was telling him. Dawn had only just broken, streaking the sky with brilliant rays of pink and purple. It was so early that not even the birds were awake yet.

Grace, in stark contrast to Regulus, didn’t feel the slightest bit tired. She was running on pure adrenaline, on a mixture of fury and excitement. It had taken her nearly the whole night to make all ninety-nine Howlers, but she had done it. They were all crammed into her knapsack, the crimson envelopes gleaming under the dreary light that filtered through the windows. Grace had labored over each and every one, making sure every word was clear and succinct, every sentence snarky and biting. She hoped her brother would appreciate them.

“After,” Grace said. “And I didn’t start the fire. James did!”

“Oh.” There was a pause, and then: “I hope the _Miraculous Mage_ series survived—”

“All the books are fine,” Grace said rather exasperatedly.

“That’s good,” Regulus said as they reached the spiral staircase. “And then you had detention?”

Grace bit back a groan. “Yeah. It was with Slughorn, though, so I didn’t have to do much. He only made me write lines while he rattled on and on about how one of his old students sent him a shipment of rare herbs from Andalusia.” Grace frowned bitterly. “He didn’t even look at what I wrote.”

Regulus let out another almighty yawn. “That’s not good.”

“It’s just annoying. I spent a good two hours writing out ‘I must not duel other students or damage Hogwarts property,’ and then he didn’t even have the decency to at least _glance_ at my work.” Grace scowled. “And what’s worse is that I think he might make me go to his blasted Slug Club instead of serving detention next week.”

“I’ll go with you if he does that.”

This would have probably seemed more self-sacrificing and noble were it not for the fact that Regulus would have gone to the Slug Club meeting anyway. He liked the atmosphere, because it was quaint and quiet. He didn’t have to do any talking because Slughorn and his guests did all of it for him. All Regulus had to do was sit back and listen. He was particularly good at it.

Grace came to a stop when they reached the top of the stairs. Just across from her was the door to the Owlery. It was a burnished copper and had been fitted into the entrance rather poorly. The hinges looked like they might give away the moment somebody grabbed the handle and pulled.  

“I’ll be right out here,” Grace promised, and stepped to the side. She tugged her knapsack off her shoulder by the strap and handed it to Regulus.

Regulus let out a sigh before taking the bag. He frowned as he hefted the bag onto his own shoulder. “Merlin—why’s it so heavy?”

“Some of them have stink pellets in them.”

Regulus stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. “You know what? I don’t want to know. I’m too tired to even be horrified right now.” He headed towards the door and pulled it open. The hinges screeched in protest. “Remind me to be aghast later.”

“Will do,” Grace said, peering at the gap in the door as Regulus crossed the threshold.

She couldn’t make out much from her angle, but she saw loads of hay and pellets thrown haphazardly across the stone floor. She saw the beginning of a wide and open archway, too, and shivered as a cold breeze slipped through. She shied away from the door and rested her head against the wall, eyes boring into the ceiling above, wondering exactly how many owls Hogwarts employed. What if there weren’t enough for all her Howlers?

Scarcely a half-minute after Regulus entered, the door swung open again. This time Regulus didn’t bother to close it. Grace’s knapsack was still slung over his shoulder, and it was still full of the red-enveloped Howlers. Regulus’s face was drawn, brows knitted together.

“Am I dreaming?” he said.

Grace’s brows rose. “What?”

“Grace,” Regulus began, and the sleep began to wean from his eyes. He seemed a bit more alert now. He seemed a bit terrified now. “There are no owls in there.”

A frown flitted across Grace’s face. She rushed towards the open door and stepped through. Her feet faltered and then came to a stop as she realized that—no—Regulus hadn’t gone insane. Every single one of the nests in the Owlery was empty.

Grace’s stomach sunk. “Is that normal?” she asked even though she already knew the answer.

“I don’t think so,” came the ready response. “I think—I think Sirius and James might have taken them all already.”

“That’s not very good, is it?” Her eyes searched helplessly over the rows of empty nests, still hoping for one—at least _one_ —owl.

“No,” Regulus said, voice hollow.

“Shall we have breakfast in the kitchens today?”

“That might be for the best.”

* * *

Over the course of the day, Grace learned that James and his band of buffoons had indeed taken all the owls. But not for Dungbombs, as Regulus had thought during their quiet, uneasy breakfast in the kitchens. What they’d done was much, _much_ worse. What they’d done was so hazardous that the entire Great Hall had to be evacuated. What they’d done cost their own House fifty points and a stern lecture from McGonagall. What they’d done was so infuriating that several Slytherin students blindly shot hexes at the Gryffindor table in retaliation. What they’d done was—

“Fireworks!” Colvin cried out on the way to Herbology. “They dropped a million packets of those wet-start fireworks from Diagon Alley!”

“It was bloody terrifying,” Wilkinson added. “There was just this massive cloud of owls over the Slytherin table and then all those fireworks started raining down.”

“How’d they get them to start?” Regulus asked.

“Those halfwits doused our whole table with a water charm to set them off.” Greengrass sniffed. “So not only did we have hundreds of fireworks going off right in front of us, but we were sopping wet when it happened!”

“One of them went off right in front of me. It damn near shattered my eardrums _and_ it singed my new robes,” Fuentes scowled, although when Grace turned to see the other girl’s robes, they seemed crisp and tidy as ever. “The only good thing that came out of this was that McGonagall took all those points from Gryffindor.”

“I would’ve much preferred having a quiet breakfast,” Greengrass grumbled.

“Yeah? Well, no one asked you,” Fuentes said.

“No one asked _you_ to be such a dunce, and yet….”

Fuentes scowled at her and opened her mouth to fire a retort. Grace took the moment to move away from the combative duo. She stuck herself closer to Regulus and Wilkinson, the latter of whom seemed more than a little put-off by her proximity.

“Now what do we do?” Grace asked Regulus lowly as the clump of Slytherin first-years reached the greenhouse. “Should we just send them the Howlers tomorrow morning instead?”

“I don’t think so,” Regulus said, sidling away from the other students. He accompanied Grace to a free workstation. “What if our brothers suspect we’ll get back at them first thing? They might set up something to stop us, or get us in trouble. And won’t the professors be sort of suspicious of our House now? They’ll probably think one of us will try to get back at the Gryffindors for what happened during breakfast. They’ll be keeping a close eye on us.”

“What?” Grace protested. “On us _specifically_? On two little first-years?”

“We _are_ related to two of the people who pulled this prank,” Regulus pointed out. “And McGonagall saw you and James duel in the library. She probably thinks the fireworks are James’s way of getting back at you, so she’ll suspect you’ll be trying to get back at him.”

Grace pursed her lips. “Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?”

“Quite a lot of people, actually.” Regulus gave her a wan smile. “It might be my best feature.”

“I don’t know about that.” Grace sighed. “But it’s definitely handy. I suppose you’re right. It’d be too hasty for us to send all those Howlers tomorrow morning.”

Regulus looked at her with mild surprise. “I think this might be the first time I’ve actually convinced you _not_ to do something.”

“Yeah, well don’t get used to it,” Grace huffed. “I’m going to figure out how to get these Howlers to James one way or another.”

* * *

By the time it was dinner, Grace hadn’t figured out a way to get all ninety-nine of her Howlers to James. Worse still, Grace was beginning to suspect she hadn’t cast the charm on her Howlers properly. Howlers generally activated when they were delivered to the intended recipient; if unopened, they got hotter and hotter until they exploded into a barrage of screams. But Grace’s Howlers hadn’t even been tied to an owl yet, and they were already so warm that Grace felt she carrying around a portable fireplace. She would never admit that she might have gotten the spell wrong, but she would admit that she was worried. She didn’t want all ninety-nine Howlers to burst open while she still had them on her person.

Which is why she was trying to convince Regulus to go through with their plan _right now_.

“What if we just chucked them at them?” Grace tried. “What if we just walked into the Great Hall and, as we were passing the Gryffindor table, we just threw the Howlers at them and left?”

Regulus stared at her like she had grown a second head. “Are you serious right now? You want us to—in plain view of not just our Head of House but the  _Headmaster_ as well—chuck a million Howlers at the Gryffindor table?”

“First of all, it’s _ninety-nine_ , not a million. Second of all...” she faltered and paused. “Second of all…er, yeah, actually. You’re sort of right. I’d rather not add on to my detentions with Slughorn.”

Regulus smiled triumphantly.

“But—” Grace shifted her bag, and the stacks of Howlers concealed within jostled, “—what’re we supposed to do about this? I feel like I’m carrying a bloody bomb with me. I dunno when they’re going to go off, but I think it’s going to be soon!”

“Yeah—I can feel the heat radiating off of them.” Regulus shifted away from her bag apprehensively. “Maybe we can just scrap the Howler idea and come up with a new plan?” Regulus paused and then tacked on hopefully, “Maybe one that’s less likely to get us in trouble?”

“Regulus, I’m not just going to throw away these Howlers! I stayed up all night making them.” Grace glanced down at her precious letters. “The Owlery is still open to the students, right? What if we just went up there, attached all the Howlers, and then forced the owls to deliver them right now?”

“I’m not sure if we could make the owls deliver them immediately. Besides, I heard from Blishwick that McGonagall and Flitwick are putting wards up around the Owlery so students can’t use more owls than are strictly necessary.”

Grace let out a loud, exasperated sigh. She threw her hands out. “Great! Well, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do now? I only want to defend Slytherin’s honor—”

“What are you two blathering on about?” a curt voice cut in.

Grace bit back a groan as Avery came around the corner. He looked less haughty than he usually did. Instead of a sneer plastered across his face, there was a light smile, and his forehead was creased in something akin to concern. His dark eyes—usually hard and cold as two lumps of coal—shone with curiosity.

Regulus’s eyes latched onto the Prefect badge that was pinned to Avery’s robes, and he swallowed thickly.

“Nothing,” Grace said immediately.

“That’s an exciting topic,” Avery said sarcastically, sauntering forward.

“It was,” Grace shot back, “until you came along. Now, bugger off.”

“ _Grace_ ,” Regulus hissed. “That’s a _Prefect_.”

Avery acknowledged Regulus lazily. “Wonderful observation. I am, in fact, a Prefect. Now let’s imagine what I’m thinking right now, shall we? I’ve just been walking through the corridor, on my way to dinner, when I hear hushed voices in an alcove. I go to investigate, and find two first-years with bags full of what seems to be Howlers—” Grace flushed and drew her overflowing bag closer to her, “—talking about defending ‘Slytherin’s honor.’ I ask them, quite politely, what they’re doing, and the two insult me. Now I’m faced with something of a dilemma: shall I assign one detention or two—?”

Regulus was rigid as a board. Grace scowled at Avery. “Come off it, you prat—”

“Another insult,” Avery said lightly. “How fun.”

“You can’t assign us detentions for just _talking_ ,” Grace said defensively. “If you _must_ know, Regulus and I—” Regulus squeaked in protest at his name being mentioned, “—were trying to figure out how to get revenge on the Gryffindors.”

Avery quirked a brow. “Revenge?”

“Yeah, for dropping the fireworks on the Slytherin table this morning.”

Avery’s expression curdled. “Oh, right,” he said miserably. “One of them nearly lit my hair on fire.” He lifted his hand and delicately patted his perfectly coiffed hair.

“Yeah, see! So we—” again, Regulus groaned at the mention of his involvement, “—were going to return the favor.” Grace lifted her bag crammed full of Howlers.

Avery glanced at the letters dryly. “You do realize that not all the Gryffindors are responsible for this? It was only a couple of them—the ones who have been terrorizing this school since last year. Not every single Gryffindor deserves a special Howler from you.”

Grace stared at Avery for a moment. Who knew he could be so impartial? “Yeah, I know. This is just for them.”

Avery’s brows rose. “You made a hundred Howlers—”

“Ninety-nine, actually.”

“—for just a couple students?”

“Yeah,” Grace said readily, even though it was just for one: James.

“If that’s not the most Slytherin thing I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what it is,” Avery sighed. He turned around and began walking away from the first-years.

Regulus turned to Grace. “That’s it?” he said disbelievingly. He was still jittery from the encounter, although Grace couldn’t imagine why. It wasn’t like Avery had even spoken to Regulus. “He’s not even going to take points away?”

“Er, I don’t—”

“Are you two coming or not?” Avery stopped about a meter away from them. He turned back around and gestured for them to follow him. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”

“What? Where are we going?” Grace said, dashing towards Avery. She grabbed Regulus by the wrist and pulled him with her. She looked up at Avery suspiciously once she reached his side. “You’re not going to give us detention, are you?”

Regulus hastily tore his hand away from Grace.

“No,” Avery said. He made a hard right at the next hallway, heading towards the Great Hall. Grace kept in step with him. Regulus followed, albeit with great effort, as though each step he took was a dagger in his heart. “We’re going to deliver your Howlers.”

“ _We_?” both Grace and Regulus said.

Avery glanced down at the duo bemusedly. “Well, we can’t let them go to waste, can we?”

“You’re _helping_ me?” Grace said, baffled. “ _You_?”

“Yes, _me_. What did you think I was going to do?”

“Er—I dunno,” Grace said honestly. “I thought perhaps you were going to lead us to a cell in the dungeon and lock us in there.”

“You thought _that_ ,” Regulus started, horrified, “and willingly followed him anyway—and dragged me along, too?”

Grace shrugged. “If he was going to do it, I was going to push him into the cell instead. Don’t worry, Regulus, I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”

Regulus didn’t seem very convinced or comforted by this.

“How noble of you,” Avery drawled boredly, stopping as they reached the corner of the entrance to the Great Hall. From their position, they could make out the entirety of the Gryffindor table. “Who’s responsible for the fireworks?”

Grace scanned across the table, eyes landing on a chatty group of four near the very edge of the table, as far as you could get from the professors at the head of the room.

“Them,” she said, and narrowed her eyes at her brother’s back. His hair was stuck up untidily, and there was a goblet of pumpkin juice sloshing in his right hand. “Just give the Howlers to that one—the gangly one with the ridiculous hair. He’s the mastermind.”

Avery squinted at the boy. “Isn’t that your brother?”

“No,” Grace said.

“Yes,” Regulus said at the exact same time.

“First-years just get more and more ridiculous every year,” Avery sighed to himself. “Alright, show me the Howlers.”

Grace tugged her knapsack off her shoulder and lifted her bag up towards Avery. “How’re you going to get these to them? Can you go and dump them all over their heads?”

“No,” Avery said flatly. “I’m not going to martyr myself for this. I’m just going to—” he waved his wand over the contents of Grace’s bag, and every letter inside disappeared, “—vanish them.”

“That’s the _opposite_ of what I want,” Grace cried out. “Where’ve you put the Howlers? Where’ve they gone?”

“That’s actually a very complicated question,” Regulus said. “They go into non-being, like a strange state of not existing, which is kind of the same as saying it’s everywhere—”

“Well bring them back!” Grace said hotly, glaring fiercely at Avery.

“I will,” Avery said, glancing at her warily before fixing his gaze back on the Gryffindor table. “I’m going to reappear them—which one’s your brother again?”

“Oh.” Grace’s fury ebbed away. She grabbed onto Avery’s wand and pointed it towards the end of the Gryffindor table. “Right there. He’s the prat-faced one.”

“What vivid descriptions you paint,” Avery drawled. “Have you considered a career as a writer?”

Grace scowled at him. “Just make the Howlers come back.”

Avery’s wand sliced through the air, and he muttered an incantation under his breath. In an instant, all ninety-nine Howlers appeared from the aether. They hovered in the air for a moment, right above James’s head, before crashing down.

Grace grinned as James nearly fell from his bench from the torrent of letters. Sirius, Remus, Peter, and plenty of other nearby Gryffindors were caught up in the stream. Those seated further away were safe from the sudden barrage of letters, but they stiffened and recoiled as their eyes caught sight of the crimson covers.

“Shall we head in and enjoy the show?” Avery asked, pocketing his wand. There was a smile billowing across his lips.

Grace and Regulus followed the seventh-year inside the Great Hall, heads craned towards the Gryffindor table. James and his friends were scrambling away from the mound of letters. As soon as they realized the letters weren’t ordinary letters, they immediately began destroying every single one they could get their hands on.

“Incendio!” Sirius barked, and at least ten of Grace’s painstakingly-crafted Howlers were burnt to a crisp.

But before Sirius could open his mouth again, the first of Grace’s remaining eighty-nine Howlers exploded:

“JAMES POTTER STILL SLEEPS WITH A MOONCALF STUFFED TOY NAMED BLUEY.”

The entire Great Hall burst out laughing. Grace’s eyes lit up with mirth. James’s face turned a brilliant shade of crimson, and he doubled his efforts to destroy the remaining Howlers. But now that one had gone off, it was only a matter of time until the others did. Sure enough, within the next thirty seconds, at least a dozen went off in quick succession:

“JAMES POTTER STOLE BERTRAM AUBREY’S SPECIAL EDITION PACKET OF HONEYDUKES SWEETS IN FIRST-YEAR.”

“JAMES POTTER IS AFRAID OF THE GREAT LAKE. HE THINKS THE GREAT SQUID MIGHT EAT HIM.”

“ _DON’T GO BREAKING MY HEART, YOU’LL FIND YOURSELF WITH A BOGGART_.”

Regulus shot Grace a questioning look. His cheeks were flush with laughter, and his eyes were bright. His smile was the broadest Grace had ever seen, and she beamed at the sight of it.

“I ran out of stuff to say,” she explained over the din of students’ laughter and Howler screams, “so I started used some of the Hobgoblin’s lyrics.”

“How many of them are just song lyrics?”

“Honestly? Like fifty.”

Several students were jeering at James, who had stopped trying to destroy the Howlers and was now attempting to flee the Great Hall. Unfortunately, Bertram Aubrey chose just that moment to make his way from the Ravenclaw table to confront James about his stolen pack of Honeydukes chocolates. James was now trapped between a furious Ravenclaw and a pile of unopened Howlers.

Sirius had given up destroying the Howlers when James did. Once it was clear each Howler was tailored for James and only James, Sirius kicked back and roared with laughter every time one of the letters revealed a new fact about his best friend.

“Salazar,” Avery said after the twentieth Howler screamed that James’s preferred nickname was Jam-Jam. He was lounging behind the first-years, eyes tracing over the Gryffindor table curiously. There was a smirk trailing across his lips; every time a Howler went off, it grew a bit wider. “How long did you spend on these?”

She shrugged. “I don’t really sleep much.”

“Are all the facts about James embarrassing ones?” Regulus said.

Grace bit the inside of her cheek. “Some of them are kind of vicious, actually—but only two or three.”

Just as she said that, the twenty-first Howler screamed, “YOU’RE JUST A PRAT AND—”

Before it could finish, it exploded into a ball of noxious green gas. The gas was so thick that it eclipsed James completely from view. The horrible smell of rotten eggs and unwashed socks spread throughout the Gryffindor table, and half of the students there leapt away from the source. Even the Hufflepuffs nearby were scrambling away, hastily covering their noses and mouths. McGonagall was beginning to make her way down from the podium of professors, her lips set into one thin, grim line.

“I put a couple of stink pellets in a couple of them,” Grace admitted quietly. “Well—more than a couple. I crammed like twenty into one.”

“Oh, _right_ ,” Regulus breathed. “I forgot you’d done that.”

“Yeah, I was supposed to remind you to be upset with me.”

“I’m mostly impressed,” he admitted after a moment. “How’d you figure that out? Howlers aren’t meant to carry items. Wouldn’t the spell have messed it up?”

“I think the charm _did_ mess them up,” Grace said. “I had to look up a different spell for Howlers that are carrying items. I think when I cast it I didn’t do it properly, and that’s probably why they started getting hot around lunchtime.”

Regulus nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

“No, it bloody doesn’t,” Avery said flatly, looking down at Grace with faint disapproval. His lighthearted smirk had retreated into a slight frown. “Who in their right mind attaches stink pellets to Howlers? Of all things?”

“It was the big twist,” Grace said. “Howlers are nice and all, but I needed something else to tie it all together.”

“You didn’t mention your Howlers had stink pellets in them.”

“Because it would have ruined the surprise,” Grace said matter-of-factly.

Avery’s lips pursed. He took a deep breath before turning his back on Grace and Regulus and stalking towards the seventh-year end of the Slytherin table.

“It takes _days_ for that stink to come out,” he muttered as he walked away.

“Do you know him?” Regulus asked. “I’m assuming you do, because I feel like any other Prefect would’ve taken points if you yelled at them and called them a prat.”

“Yeah, he’s in my Divination class. He takes it a bit too seriously. He’s always pulling aside Vablatsky to brag about so-and-so vision he’s had or some fate he’s divined from tarot cards or whatever.” Grace rolled his eyes. “I reckon Vablatsky’s wretched tea might have driven him mad.”

“He’s got a point, though,” Regulus said, gazing at the large puff of foul gas. McGonagall was trying to disperse the cloud with some sort of charm, but it was only driving the smell further out. “We’re going to have class with some stinky Gryffindors tomorrow.”

Grace glanced at Avery’s retreating form. For a Slytherin Prefect, for a pure-blood boy, he seemed awfully concerned about fairness, which was quite strange considering all the sneering and scoffing he did in Divination. Perhaps he was more selfless than Grace gave him credit for, although she still didn’t feel he ought to be _that_ concerned about the stink cloud making its way through the Gryffindor table. After all, it wasn’t like any of it had gotten on him.

Grace’s eyes flickered back towards the Gryffindor table. Flitwick had joined McGonagall and had successfully gotten rid of the gas, but the Howlers were still going off. Several students were trying to destroy the remaining Howlers in the hopes of stopping another stink pellet attack. Grace’s heart sunk when she caught sight of her tutor, Lily, who seemed to have been hit by a wave of gas. Lily’s lips were pulled back into a disgruntled grimace, and she had joined the united Gryffindor effort in destroying the Howlers.

Perhaps Avery’s concern wasn’t so misplaced after all.

* * *

McGonagall had been quick in assigning blame to Grace, but Grace had been equally as quick in denying every accusation thrown her way. After all, the evidence was circumstantial at best. Sure, Grace was likely the only person who knew all those embarrassing details from James’s life, but that was hardly something that could be proven, right? Not to mention, how could a first-year—especially one who required _tutoring_ —pull off a vanishing and conjuring spell? It just wasn’t possible. And, eventually, McGonagall reluctantly conceded the fact. It helped, Grace supposed, that Dumbledore was so amused by the whole incident that he didn’t bother investigating it thoroughly at all.

Friday morning soon came, and the Slytherins were still snickering about the miserable fate that had befallen the Gryffindors last night. Thanks to McGonagall, there was a rumor going around that Grace had spearheaded the prank. And since Grace hadn’t gotten into any trouble for it, she was fine with letting the rumors persist. A couple of her fellow Slytherins—Fuentes and Blishwick—had actually complimented her on it during breakfast. They had even begun to give her suggestions on some _new_ pranks, much to Regulus’s chagrin.

“Are you planning to do something else soon?” Fuentes asked eagerly as some of the first-year Slytherins began to leave the Great Hall.

“No,” Regulus deadpanned while Grace merely shrugged.

Fuentes’s bright face fell. “Oh, are you sure? I’ve got a couple of ideas I think you could use. My brother owled me a load of hiccough sweets. I’m thinking we could spike the Gryffindors’ lunch—”

“Hiccough sweets? What are you—five?” Blishwick scoffed. He turned towards Grace, brows drawn up hopefully. “I’ve got scores of joke wands. What if we switched out some of the Gryffindors’ wands for them, so then—”

“Definitely not,” Regulus said, frowning. “We’d get detention for stealing other students’ wands.”

“No one asked for your opinion, Black,” Fuentes snapped. “If you care so much about detentions, then butt out. We don’t _need_ your help.”

Grace scowled at the taller girl. “And I don’t need _your_ help, Fuentes. Why don’t you go back to bothering Greengrass?”

Fuentes’s dark eyes blazed. Her hand twitched towards the wand in her pocket.

“Do you really want to cast a hex in front of all the professors?” Regulus said crossly. He inclined his head towards the table at the head of the Great Hall. McGonagall was watching the pack of Slytherin first-years with a hawk’s eye.

Fuentes’s hands dropped. The ember in her eyes died out. “I was just giving you some suggestions is all.”

“Yeah, and so was Regulus,” Grace said. “And I’d say his suggestions are a million times more valuable than yours. I would’ve probably gotten a months’ worth of detention if he hadn’t warned me about all the ways the Howler prank could’ve gone wrong.”

Blishwick’s mouth fell open. “Y—You mean to say that _he_ helped you do _that_?” He pointed at Regulus limply. “ _Him_?”

Regulus’s face grew stormier. His lips were twisted into a bitter little grimace, and his eyes—dark and shadowed—focused unhappily on Blishwick. Despite his near palpable irritation, he didn’t say anything.

“Yeah,” Grace said, and resisted the urge to stick her foot out and trip Blishwick as they walked.

“But—but—”

“But he’s much smarter than you? But he’s much better at magic than you?” Grace supplied. “Yeah, I agree.”

Blishwick’s face crumpled and fell. Besides him, Fuentes was snickering quietly. Regulus’s lips quirked into something of a smile.

“Look, I don’t need your suggestions, okay?” Grace plowed on. “I’ve got plenty of ideas myself. Besides, I doubt I’ll need to pull something as widescale as the Howlers again—”

Blishwick’s eyes widened somewhere during the course of Grace’s small speech. He swallowed thickly and then bolted away from the small group, dashing out of the Great Hall to catch up with some other Slytherins. Fuentes glanced at Grace, looked back the tables of students, and promptly scurried away as well.

Grace slowed to a stop, brows furrowing. “Well—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want them gone. But why’d they run off like that?”

“Er—Grace?” Regulus said softly.

“What?”

“Your hair….”

“What do you mean?” Grace frowned at him before tugging a lock of hair out of her messy ponytail. She stared at it for one long moment before letting the strands fall out of her hand.

Her hair had been charmed green. And it wasn’t even a nice green, like the emerald green of the Slytherin tapestries or the shimmering light green of the Great Lake. It was a horrid, vivid _lime_ green. Grace twisted around, and caught sight of her brother amongst the Gryffindors, laughing wildly, his wand clutched loosely in his right hand.

She lifted her own wand, but Regulus stopped her.

“ _What_?” she growled. “Let me just hit him with the tickling charm—”

“If you do that, your brother will fire back. And then _you’ll_ cast another spell. And, before you know it, you’ll be caught up in a duel again.”

“So?” she challenged.

“ _So_ , we’re in the Great Hall, and Dumbledore is _right there_.” Regulus’s eyes flickered up to the center of the professors’ table. Dumbledore was having an animated discussion with Sprout.

“I—okay, _fine_. I’ll get him back later,” Grace said, shoving her wand roughly into her pocket and stomping out of the Great Hall. “Do you think you can get my hair back to normal?”

“Maybe,” Regulus said, but he didn’t sound too sure.

* * *

Snickers and sneers followed Grace throughout the day. By late afternoon, she was fuming and snapping at any person that so much as looked at her for a second longer than was strictly necessary.

“It must be an upper-level spell,” Regulus said apologetically as they filed out of Transfiguration. He was clutching a book about charming one’s appearance that he’d checked out of the library during lunch. “You could ask McGonagall to change it back?”

Grace ducked out of the stern professor’s sight as she exited the classroom. “I’d sooner feed my own hand to a blast-ended skrewt than ask her for help. She’ll probably ask me what happened, and then I’ll have to tell her it was James. And then she’ll start suspecting James jinxed me to get back at me for the Howlers.”

“So you’re just going to stay like this all day?” Regulus said. He followed her to the North Tower, towards Grace’s Divination class. “Hold on—” he flipped open his book, “—maybe I missed something in here.”

“You read that book cover-to-cover during lunch. I doubt you’ll find anything else in it.” She sighed. “I’ll probably go to Flitwick during dinner and ask him to change it back.”

It was just her luck that she didn’t have a nice professor today. The first-year Slytherins were stuck with Double History of Magic and Double Transfiguration. Binns, being a ghost, could hardly charm Grace’s hair back to normal. And, of course, McGonagall was out of the question.

“I wish I knew some advanced spells,” Grace muttered as they reached the spiral staircase. “I wish I knew a spell that could turn James into a chicken.”

“We’ll probably learn that at some point.”

“But not by _tomorrow_ ,” Grace said. “I’ve got to get back at him as soon as possible. _This_ —” she grabbed a fistful of her bright green hair, “—is unacceptable.”

Regulus closed his book and eyed her warily. “What exactly are you thinking? And—just so you know—I _won’t_ do anything illegal.”

“I’m not sure yet,” Grace said, stomping up the stairs. “I’m thinking we sneak into the Gryffindor tower, steal James’s underpants, and string it up across—”

“Let me stop you right there,” Regulus cut in. “First of all, I don’t want to touch your brother’s pants—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll Scourgify them first.”

Regulus ignored her. “Second of all, _how_ do we even get into the tower? We’d need the Gryffindor password.”

“I’ll just ask a Gryffindor.”

“Why in Merlin’s name would a Gryffindor tell two Slytherins the password to their common room?”

“Because if they don’t, I’ll use the full-body bind curse on them.” Grace stopped at the ladder that led to the Divination classroom. She turned around, facing Regulus, and raised her chin up slightly, daring him to convince her otherwise.

He took her up on the challenge: “That’s almost certainly guaranteed to add to your detentions.”

“So?” Grace bit. “I’ll be more than happy to tack on a couple more detentions if it means James won’t have a single pair of pants to wear.”

“How about instead of cursing a student,” Regulus said slowly, “we hide near the Gryffindor common room and wait for a student to tell the password to the portrait?”

“But that’ll take _forever_ ,” Grace complained.

“All the first-years will likely head up after dinner tonight. If we follow them up discreetly, we’ll probably hear them say the password.”

“Regulus, today is a Friday.”

“What? Students don’t want to go back to their common room on a Friday?”

“We don’t _all_ check out books to read in our dormitories,” Grace pointed out. “Today’s the _last_ Friday of the month. The Hufflepuffs always host a party then.”

“The—wait, what?” Regulus said. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Grace frowned bitterly. “I tried to get Cresswell to invite me to last month’s, but he said something about needing a special card to get in. I can’t tell if he’s joking about it or if he’s actually serious.”

“You wanted to go to a party with _Cresswell_?”

“Not _with_ him. I just wanted to get _in_. The Hufflepuff common room looks wicked, and I think they’ve got something set up so they can have light shows during their parties.” Grace stared at the ladder thoughtfully. “Maybe Pokey knows the melody to get in. The kitchens are right next to the common room, after all.”

Regulus’s forehead creased in worry. “Wait, so now you’re going to a party after dinner?”

“No, I can’t. I don’t have the special card or whatever, remember?”

“I—” Regulus shook his head, “—you know what? There isn’t really time to dissect all this. I’ve got to head to Flying before I’m late.”

Grace’s face soured at the mention of Flying. “Alright.”

Regulus’s eyes caught onto her cross expression. “We’ll figure out how to get the Gryffindor password during dinner,” he promised.

Grace was certain whatever plan Regulus came up with would be the most tedious and needlessly complex plan that had ever been conceived. Despite this, a faint smile flickered across her face.

“Okay,” she agreed before heading up the ladder.

As she lifted the trapdoor and headed inside the classroom, she found that most of the class was already here. The Prewetts and Khan caught sight of her fluorescent hair and promptly collapsed into a fit of laughter. Even Andromeda and Ted were trying to stifle a couple of chuckles. Grace scowled at all of them as she stalked over to her usual seat. She’d thought seventh-years were supposed to be _mature_.

Grace pursed her lips, dropped her bag on the floor, and slouched against her chair, crossing her arms and staring grumpily at the seventh-years that surrounded her.

The trapdoor opened, and Avery climbed up. He started at the laughter but his eyes quickly landed on Grace’s hair and he relaxed.

“Taking House spirit a bit far, aren’t we?” he said as he made his way to his own table.

“It’s not even the same shade, you pillock,” Grace snapped.

“Come here,” Andromeda said, swallowing down her amusement. She took out her wand and waved it over Grace’s hair. The color immediately reverted back to its original jet-black.

“Sweet Circe,” Grace breathed, examining the thick, tangled locks. “You’re a genius.”

“What exactly happened to you?” Gideon said after the laughter died down. “Did you upset a fifth-year?”

“No,” Grace said, and refused to say more on the subject. She didn’t want to give the Prewetts another excuse to laugh at her. Her eyes flickered towards the Gryffindor crest emblazoned on Gideon’s robes. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You already have,” Fabian laughed.

Gideon snorted at his brother. “What is it?”

“What’s the password to the Gryffindor common room?”

“Why do _you_ need the password to the Gryffindor common room?” Avery asked warily. “Weren’t the stink pellets during dinner enough?”

Fabian jumped out of his seat and rounded on Grace. “Was that _you_ —”

Khan burst out laughing again. “Oh, that was bloody brilliant! I mean, the smell was awful, but it was worth it seeing these two—” he gestured at the Prewetts, “—get doused head to toe in stink pellet gas.”

“Do you want us to remove the Sweet-Smell Charm we’ve put on ourselves, Khan?” Gideon threatened lightly.

“I can’t believe this,” Fabian said, falling back into his chair. “Pranked by an eleven-year-old. Merlin, what’s the world come to?” He shook his head despondently. “And now you want _us_ , the poor victims of your vicious attack, to just hand over the password to our common room?”

“Er—yes?” Grace said.

Gideon snorted. “Tough luck. The only way we’ll ever tell you that is if you spike our drinks with Veritaserum.”

Grace’s eyes lit up.

Avery caught onto her gaze. “Don’t even think about it, Potter.”

“I’m good at Potions,” Grace said readily. She twisted towards Ted. “I’d just need the ingredients. Do you know what goes into Veritaserum?”

“Er—” Ted glanced at Andromeda unsurely.

“Great going, Gid,” Fabian muttered. “Now we’re going to be slipped some botched Veritaserum. We’ll likely die of poisoning at breakfast tomorrow.”

“No one’s slipping anyone _any_ Veritaserum,” Andromeda said sternly. She raised a brow at Grace. “Why do you even need the Gryffindor password?”

“It was my brotherwho charmed my hair green,” Grace explained. “I’ve got to get back at him. I was going to sneak into his dormitory and—” she glanced suspiciously at the Prewetts, who were listening with rapt attention, “—maybe I’ll just tell you the rest later.”

“Here’s an idea,” Avery called out. “Why don’t you stop this ridiculous, petty feud and just move on with your life?”

“Here’s an idea,” Grace shot back. “Why don’t you stop giving me ideas?”

“I hate to admit it, but Avery’s got a point,” Gideon said. “Your brother’s a little terror. If you keep retaliating, he’ll retaliate, too, and against _all_ Slytherins.”

“The fireworks,” Andromeda recalled darkly.

“And the Howlers,” Fabian brought up pointedly. “Whatever you do is going to affect the whole lot of us. Slytherins and Gryffindors alike will suffer.”

“Oh, come on, the stink pellets weren’t _that_ bad,” Grace said stubbornly.

“They were,” Fabian, Gideon, and Avery said all at once.

“Okay, _fine_ , I won’t pull something big like that again,” Grace said, although she didn’t really intend on keeping that promise. “I just want the Gryffindor password. I’ll only be sneaking into James’s dormitory.”

Gideon shook his head. “Not going to happen.”

“But—” Grace started.

Just at that moment, Vablatsky appeared from the backroom. “Hello, everyone!” She swished towards the front of the classroom. “Have anyone’s visions come to pass?”

The class fell quiet. Avery and Andromeda were the only ones who raised their hands. Vablatsky seemed a little disappointed about this. Grace supposed the aged professor expected a class full of N.E.W.T. Divination students to be popping out relevant predictions left and right.

“Miss Black?” Vablatsky called.

Andromeda pulled out her report before beginning. “My partners’ notes only showed that I had said the numbers two, six, and eight. I’ve been a little stressed about my family, and all these numbers turned out to be family-related. Two days after our class, my oldest sister got engaged. The wedding is on the eighth of June—six and eight.”

“How very interesting,” Vablatsky said. “Were you particularly worried about this sister?”

“I suppose.”

“About her love life?”

“I guess?”

“About _your_ love life?”

“Er—no, not really,” Andromeda said, but she did not meet Vablatsky’s eyes this time.

“Very good nonetheless, dear. I’d like you to focus on something less emotional for you—something that you’re not really involved in, that you have no ties to—for this session. I’m curious to see if you’ll continue to interpret using numbers.” Vablatsky nodded toward Avery. “And now, Mr. Avery.”

Avery smiled smugly. “ _My_ vision was about a great flood of ice in a region I couldn’t quite pinpoint at the time. My partners noted that I had mentioned ‘the accent of the place in question was thick.’ This morning, I checked the _Prophet_ , and apparently there’s been an avalanche near Durmstrang.”

“Do you have family in Durmstrang?”

Avery frowned. “No, of course not.”

“Fear of avalanches?”

“No.” Avery pursed his lips.

“Interest in visiting Russia?”

“Why in Merlin’s name would I ever want to visit that wasteland?”

“Hmm,” Vablatsky said. “I would suggest you focus on something deeply personal today, Mr. Avery. I’m curious to see if visions come as easily to you when you’ve got some stake in it.” Vablatsky continued to look around. “No one else’s visions came to pass?”

The Prewetts forced Khan’s hand up.

“Let go—” Khan muttered furiously. “That wasn’t _real_ —”

“Yes it was,” Fabian insisted.

“That was by far the realest event I’ve witnessed in my _life_ ,” Gideon protested.

Vablatsky sighed. “What is it? Mr. Khan?”

“I—” Khan wrenched his hand away from the Prewetts and glared at them. “ _They_ predicted that I’d slip down the main staircase that leads to the Great Hall. On Wednesday, they lured me down there—”

“We didn’t lure you anywhere,” Gideon objected. “Fab’s foot got caught in the trick step. We saw you passing by and only wanted your help.”

“Yeah, and when I did come by, you pushed me down the steps because you just wanted my help that badly, did you?”

“Come now, Nasir,” Fabian said. “It’s hardly our fault you slipped down those steps, now is it?”

“Some idiot slathered soap all over them,” Gideon picked up. “We can’t be blamed for that!”

“Yes, you _can_ ,” Khan hissed, “because the idiots who did that were _you two_.”

Fabian let out a great, fake gasp. “That’s quite the accusation you’re throwing around. Have you got any proof?”

“What happened after you fell down the stairs?” Grace piped in curiously.

Khan stared at her, unimpressed. “I shattered both my knees, thanks for asking.”

Grace’s brows rose. Ted sucked in a breath.

“Just like we predicted,” Gideon said solemnly. “It’s a gift and a curse, isn’t it, Professor? To be able to divine such tragedies but be absolutely helpless in the face of them? My dear brother and I had to carry poor Nasir all the way to the Hospital Wing—”

“Yeah, after I _paid_ you fifteen Galleons,” Khan snapped. “Which reminds me, I’d really like that money back.”

Avery shook his head. “I can’t believe you two got into this class.”

“Honestly?” Vablatsky said. “Neither can I. Marchbanks insists you two did not cheat, and yet….” She turned towards the other students. “Did anyone else have a  _legitimate_ vision that came to fruition?”

The remaining students shook their heads.

Vablatsky's pale blue eyes sought out Grace. “What about you, Miss Potter?”

“Me?” Grace repeated. The Prewetts snorted from their table. Andromeda glared at them. “Uh—I didn’t really have a vision.”

“Oh, but you gave such a delightful list last Friday. Did Miss Black or Mr. Tonks write it down?”

“Oh—yes!” Ted said, scrambling for it in his bag. He pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment. “Yes, I’ve got it.”

“Wonderful! Now, I have my own list,” Vablatsky said, bringing out a piece of pale-blue parchment from one of her many pockets. She handed it to Khan. “Mr. Tonks and Mr. Khan—would you both alternate reading your lists?”

“Redcurrant chocolate,” Ted said.

“Redcurrant chocolate,” Khan said, looking down the list.

“Roast beef, steamed broccoli, mashed potatoes,” Ted said, and Khan said the same thing from the list Vablatsky handed him.

“What’s going on?” Grace whispered to Andromeda.

Andromeda smiled at Grace. “I think you’re about to gain some credibility in this class.”

“Shepherd’s pie,” Ted and Khan both said.

“And I believe the last thing on both lists is treacle tart?” Vablatsky said. Both Ted and Khan nodded. “Well—does anyone have a guess as to what Miss Potter predicted?”

No one said anything for a moment, but then the Hufflepuff girl at Avery’s table said, “A menu?”

Vablatsky beamed. “Very, very close! You see, class, during the weekend I was invited to an impromptu gala hosted by the Ministry. It was quite nice. But they had much more food than what Miss Potter predicted: mince pies, sponge cake, pudding. So _now_ what do you think it is she predicted?”

No one said anything this time, but several students exchanged put-out glances with one another.

“Well,” Vablatsky continued seamlessly, “I’ll tell you, then. Miss Potter predicted _exactly_ what food a particular guest ate and the _precise order_ in which he ate it. This particular guest started off with redcurrant chocolate—now, that’s what caught my attention. It was one of the little treats near the punch bowl, but no one else wanted to try them, because they’re notoriously bitter. But I saw this person eat it, and I knew I had to write down the rest of what he ate to see if it matched. And it did, didn’t it?” Vablatsky grinned at everyone. Her teeth were yellowed, and one of her incisors was missing. “And wait till you hear the best part! The guest was none other than Dumbledore!” She let out a great laugh. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell him tonight that someone in _my_ class predicted _exactly_ what he ate.”

Andromeda nudged Grace. She was smiling. “Good job, Grace.”

“Good job, indeed!” Vablatsky agreed. “Now _this_ is the level of specificity you should _all_ strive for. I know the future is muddled and slippery, but truth can only be attained if you hang on _tight_. Numbers are nice, but they can also correlate to anything, and a flood of ice in a region with a thick accent could apply to too many places to be any real use.”

“ _Ha_ ,” Fabian said, lounging back in his chair. “Take that, Avery.”

“You really think I’m the dunce in this scenario?” Avery seethed. “You _injured_ a student in order to make your _fake_ prediction come true.”

Vablatsky ignored the bickering students, returning her gaze to Grace. “Miss Potter, for today I would like you to attempt to See without the use of your wand. We’ll see how far you can get.” Vablatsky turned to the rest of the class. “We’ll be doing the same thing as last time, but let’s change the order this time!”

“Why don’t you go first this time?” Andromeda said, already nudging the ball towards Grace.

“Okay, but I don’t really like staring into this thing,” Grace said, peering down at the fog. It billowed and curled into strange patterns. “It’s sort of boring.”

“Then don’t stare at it,” Ted said easily. “Why don’t you close your eyes like last time?”

Grace stared at him. “But then how am I supposed to see?”

“You don’t need to see to See.”

“What?”

“Just give it a shot,” Andromeda said. “And put your hands on the ball. It’s supposed to help with the connection.”

“Okay,” Grace said unsurely, placing a palm on either side of the crystal ball. She closed her eyes again, and tried to do what she did last time. But what exactly _had_  she done last time? She opened her eyes a moment later. “This isn’t working.”

“You barely tried it for a minute,” Ted said kindly. “Just keep going at it. It takes a while to slip into a trance.”

Grace frowned but conceded. She closed her eyes once more and tried to See or whatever the hell it was she did last time. Various things wavered through her mind—the lime green color her hair had been, James’s infuriating laugh, the Prewetts’ refusal to give up the Gryffindor password—but nothing constituted a vision for Grace. She wasn’t even sure what a _vision_ was supposed to look like. She didn’t think she really had one last time; it must have been some sort of fluke or an effect of the Prewetts tampering with the magnetic field around her own crystal ball, because she hadn’t actually _Seen_ anything. She’d just been hungry.

Grace’s twenty minutes passed by swiftly with nothing to show for it. She passed the crystal ball on to Ted. After twenty more minutes of complete and utter silence (surprisingly, the Prewetts didn’t try anything, although this might have been because Khan actually refused to give them the crystal ball), Ted sighed dejectedly and passed on the ball to Andromeda.

Just as class was about to end, Andromeda called out some numbers, which Grace hurriedly scribbled down. She stuffed her parchment into her bag and dashed towards the trapdoor, eager to leave behind all this Seeing nonsense and find Regulus in the Great Hall to get cracking on a plan to break into the Gryffindor tower.

“Anything?” Vablatsky called out as she caught sight of Grace scrambling towards the trapdoor.

“Er—” Grace stopped in her tracks. “Andromeda got some more numbers…but Ted and I got nothing.”

“Miss Black, what numbers did you predict?”

Andromeda came up behind Grace. “Seven, fifty-two, one thousand and twenty-seven.”

“Sweet Circe,” Vablatsky said. “You’ve never given me numbers this high. What were you thinking of?”

“Plants,” Andromeda shrugged. “You said to be distant, and this was the only thing I could think of.”

“She hates plants,” Ted offered as an explanation. “Ever since the Venomous Tentacula nearly bit her hand off in second-year.”

“Hmm...I’ll check in with Professor Sprout before next Friday to see if these numbers have significance to her.” Vablatsky turned to Grace and Ted. “And you two Saw nothing?” They shook their heads. “Well, it’s on and off for you, Mr. Tonks, so hopefully you’ll get something next time. As for you, Miss Potter, let’s go back to the wand for next session. However, we only have three more classes with the crystal ball, and my goal for you is to have a vision by the last class without the use of the wand, so keep at it!”

“Will do,” Grace said weakly, and followed Andromeda and Ted out of the classroom. “Merlin’s beard—only three more classes?”

“With the crystal ball,” Ted reminded her. “We’ll move on to tarot cards, then reading palms, and then dream journals. Vablatsky’s got a certain order she likes doing this in.”

“But that’s not even,” Grace said, although she was secretly relieved. She could probably feign her way through tarot cards and palm reading like she did with the tea leaves. “Only five classes for crystal gazing and then how many ever for the other four?”

“Crystal gazing isn’t Vablatsky’s preferred method of Seeing. Tarot cards are actually her favorite medium. She’ll spend at least two months on that.” Andromeda glanced down at Grace curiously. “How come you’re following us?”

“What do you mean?” Grace said. “I’ve got to go in this direction to get to the Great Hall.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never gone down with us to the Great Hall before,” Ted pointed out. “We started thinking you were part of the Gobstones club or something. They have separate dinners on Friday so they can practice.”

Grace wrinkled her nose. “I’d eat my left shoe before joining the _Gobstones_ club.”

“You and me both,” Ted joked.

“If you haven’t been at Gobstones, then where have you been?” Andromeda asked.

“Oh—here and there,” Grace said as nonchalantly as possible. She wasn’t about to admit that she’d been avoiding the Great Hall for nearly two months because she was afraid of her brother’s reaction to her Sorting.

Merlin, now that she thought back on her whole plan, she realized just how _embarrassing_ it was. She should have gone up to James the very morning after her Sorting and told him to just deal with it.

“Oh, right,” Andromeda chuckled. “I’d forgotten how _secretive_ you first-years are.”

“Honestly, they are,” Ted said seriously. “It’s first-years you’ve got to watch out for. Nobody pays them any attention. The little buggers could be running a black market in Hogwarts, and no one would be the wiser.”

Grace laughed at this as she followed the older students down the set of stairs that led to the Great Hall. Her shoes pattered against the stone steps rhythmically— _clack, clack, clack_ —and the sound echoed in her head. Grace’s smile dipped into a grimace as the sound grew louder. Merlin, she could almost feel each step in her head, as though there were a hundred students walking in her own mind instead of just a couple on the staircase.

It wasn’t until Grace stepped through the Great Hall, following Andromeda towards the Slytherin table, that she realized it _wasn’t_ the echo of students’ footsteps. It was a dull ache burgeoning in her temples.

Grace ground her teeth as a throb flashed viciously across her head. She refused to believe she was feeling what she was feeling. This couldn’t be a paroxysm. It was too soon. It didn’t make sense. It had to be some sort of coincidence. It _had_ to.

“Oh, there’s Regulus,” Andromeda pointed out. “Let’s see him, shall we?”

“Yeah,” Grace agreed without really hearing the older girl. She blindly traced Andromeda’s steps towards the group of first-years. Her eyes caught onto a familiar mop of wavy dark hair and grey eyes.

“Hullo,” she said, sitting beside Regulus.

Regulus twisted to her and he smiled. “Hey—your hair’s not green anymore!”

“That would be my doing,” Andromeda said, sitting readily on Grace’s other side. Several first-years looked up and froze at the sight of the seventh-year. Gamp stared at Andromeda, mouth open like a gaping fish.

Regulus’s eyes lit up. “Andy! What’re you doing here?”

“I go to this school, funnily enough,” Andromeda said merrily. She grabbed an empty place and picked up a couple of mince pies. She pointed to some chocolates arranged in a platter and nudged Grace. “Hey, look—redcurrant chocolate. Isn’t that ironic?”

“Er—?” Regulus glanced at Grace.

“It’s a long story,” was all Grace said. She scooped some roast beef onto her own plate and took a bite but immediately regretted it. As she chewed, as her molars scraped against each other, the throbbing amplified, growing more and more persistent.

Grace swallowed down her food with a grimace. “How was Flying?”

Regulus grinned. “Fantastic! Hooch let some of the better flyers play with the Quaffle. It was basically just an hour of free time.”

“I hated Flying. I always got knocked in the head with the Quaffle,” Andromeda grumbled, shoveling a mouthful of roasted potatoes into her mouth. “They should make that into an optional class. It’d likely save students a trip to the Hospital Wing.”

“But then how would someone who’s afraid of flying ever find out if they’re good at it?” Regulus said.

“They’ll just take the class. I said it should be _optional_ , not forbidden for inexperienced players.”

“Yeah, but if they’re afraid of it, they’ll never try,” Regulus argued.

Grace drowned out the good-natured debate. She set down her fork and closed her eyes, resisting the urge to rub at her temples. Applying pressure would only make the drumming in her head fiercer.

“Are you alright, Grace?” Regulus’s voice was gentle, like lake water lapping against the shore. “You’re not usually—er—quiet.”

Grace’s eyes snapped open. She swallowed thickly. What if this wasn’t a coincidence? What if it actually was one of her wretched paroxysms? Grace couldn’t let herself devolve into a mess of fits in front of the _entire_ Great Hall. That was just about the _worst_ thing she could imagine happening to herself.

“Actually,” Grace said, standing up and immediately regretting it as the pounding in her temples became more violent. “I’m not feeling too well. I think I should head to the Hospital Wing.”

“What?” Regulus said, alarmed. “But you only just got released on Wednesday!”

“You were in the Hospital Wing?” Andromeda said, frowning. “What happened?”

“She shattered her knees,” Regulus said before Grace could even open her mouth.

Andromeda’s brows rose in disbelief. “Really? What—did you slip on the Prewetts’ soaped-up staircase, too?”

“Yeah,” Grace said without thinking. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckled growing taut and pale from the force of her grasp. She tried not to pay attention to the shooting pain in her head, but it was so very hard to ignore. Every breath she took seemed to trigger a fresh throb. She didn’t even want to take a step, afraid that the moment her foot collided against the floor, she’d spasm.

Andromeda’s hand rested against Grace’s upper arm gingerly. “What’s wrong? Is it your stomach?”

“Yeah,” Grace croaked out. “I’m gonna head to Pomfrey. I’ll see you later, Regulus. Bye Andromeda—”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Andromeda said, rising as well. She dabbed a napkin against her lips. “I’m taking you to the Hospital Wing.” She gently took Grace’s arm. “Come on. I’m a Prefect. I’ll whack students out of our way.”

“Should I—” Regulus said, getting up as well.

“ _No_ ,” Grace said immediately, wincing as a terrible ache flashed through her temples. The last thing she needed was her only friend witnessing her having a breakdown at the Hospital Wing. She didn’t even want Andromeda to come, but she didn’t really think she had the time or energy to argue with the stubborn seventh-year about it. Besides, the elder Black was reliable and responsible. If she did witness Grace having an episode, she’d probably understand, right?

Andromeda frowned as Grace slumped towards her. “Okay, let’s go. Regulus—just stay here, okay?”

Grace made her way out of the Great Hall as quickly as possible. Her mind was buzzing: this likely wasn’t a paroxysm. This, whatever it was, _couldn’t_ be an effect of her condition. It simply wasn’t possible. She’d only just collapsed last week. How could she have another episode so soon? It took months for the frenzy of volatile magical energy to build up again.

She hoped fervently that this was some sort of mistake, that she was confusing all of this—the throbbing, the aching—with something entirely unrelated. But as Grace made her way towards the Hospital Wing, as she relied more and more on Andromeda’s steady arms to guide her, as the pounding in her head grew worse and her vision became spotty, her wild hope extinguished. She knew exactly what was going to happen next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments; they're very encouraging! :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I felt like there was a lot going on here, so I kind of struggled having everything pan out smoothly. But I hope it came across well. The common thread throughout this chapter is Grace's wish to get back at James (until, of course, the very end, at which point she's got bigger problems to worry about). Let me know what you think!


	10. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andromeda has been making plans her whole life. Today is no different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and leaving such kind comments!

What Grace was doing could barely be called walking. It was more like the first-year was being dragged along by Andromeda, her feet sliding across the smooth stone of the castle as Andromeda hauled her forward. But Andromeda could hardly fault the poor girl for it. After all, Grace seemed particularly faint after taking a bite of that roast beef. Andromeda briefly wondered if the younger girl had somehow managed to contract food poisoning.

Just as they neared the corridor the Hospital Wing was located on, Grace stopped her sluggish trudge along Andromeda’s side.

“Come on, Grace,” Andromeda began, one arm wrapped firmly around the first-year’s shoulders. She tugged Grace forward, but the girl simply refused to budge. “It’s only a bit farther.”

Grace didn’t say anything. She was trembling under Andromeda’s arm, and when Andromeda looked down at the first-year—half-perplexed and half-worried—she found that Grace was _vibrating_.

No, Andromeda reasoned quickly, dark eyes roving over Grace’s quivering figure. Vibrating was the wrong word. Grace was seizing. The tremors were miniscule at first, but the longer Andromeda stared and panicked, the worse they got. The convulsions increased in strength and intensity so quickly that, within a second, Grace was collapsed against Andromeda’s side, her eyes shut, her hands closed into two tight fists.

“Grace?” Andromeda swallowed thickly, knowing that Grace could not answer but hoping all the same.

Andromeda hooked her arms under Grace’s armpits and tried hauling the younger girl forward, towards the Hospital Wing she so clearly needed to reach. But every time Andromeda took a step, she found that Grace kept tugging back, kept shaking away from Andromeda’s grasp. Pursing her lips, Andromeda heaved Grace up once more, wildly hoping that Pomfrey might just emerge from the other end of the corridor. Andromeda was growing so desperate that she would have taken  _anyone’s_ help at this rate—even Peeves.

“Grace, please,” Andromeda pleaded. It was unlikely that Grace could even hear her, but Andromeda tried all the same. “Come on, it’s only a bit—”

Grace screamed, and it was an ear-splitting thing. It was shrill and hoarse and cracked, and reminded Andromeda too vividly of the shrieks and howls of her childhood. Andromeda started, and with only one goal in mind—to _stop_ the screaming—she lifted Grace up in a tremendous rush of strength and hoisted her over her shoulder.

The screams did not lessen in the slightest as Andromeda ran to the end of the hallway. If anything, they only seemed to grow—louder and louder until Andromeda was sure it was the only thing she would be able to hear for the rest of her life. There were no pauses in between the cries; each one bled into the other. There was no rest, no respite. Andromeda didn’t understand what was happening, and this was a very rare feeling for the seventh-year. She had made it her life’s mission to always know what was happening, because that was the only way you could be prepared, of course.

“Sweet Circe,” Pomfrey gasped when Andromeda burst through the open doors.

“I don’t know what’s happened to her,” Andromeda said rapidly, voice just barely audible over the screams. Pomfrey began levitating Grace away and towards the nearest empty cot. “She seemed perfectly fine. She only had a bite of roast beef, and then she said—”

“I understand the situation perfectly well,” Pomfrey cut in, and her voice was the most severe Andromeda had ever heard.

When Grace was rested against the hospital bed, Pomfrey waved her wand. A myriad of curtains enclosed the bed, shielding both Grace and Pomfrey from view. After another second, the screams stopped. In their place was a faint yet persistent buzzing, and Andromeda knew that Grace’s howling had not stopped, not really. They had only been glamored over, had only been concealed.

It didn’t help, if Andromeda was being honest. She could still hear Grace’s screams—the ones from the corridor, the ones that were so sudden and alarming that Andromeda felt a dagger had been pressed to her throat. The cries echoed in her head—distorted and terrible, too loud and too sharp—and her stomach lurched, the contents of her half-eaten dinner threatening to spill.

That wasn’t food poisoning. That was something else, and Andromeda dreaded to know what.

Andromeda’s head snapped up when she saw Pomfrey emerge from the screen of curtains, wand aloft. Several flasks of potions were being levitated from various different shelves all at once. Pomfrey took each one as they reached her, scanned its contents quickly, and then gave a quick shake of her head and sent it back to its rightful position. The muffled buzzing still surrounded Grace’s cot, so Andromeda knew the poor girl was continuing to scream her head off.

Frowning, Andromeda bounded towards the matron.

“No, stop!” Pomfrey cried out. The vials of potions froze in midair. “Miss Black, you cannot come near her right now. Miss Potter’s condition is critical. I have half a mind to send her to St. Mungo’s.”

“Then do it!” Andromeda throat closed in. Grace’s screams continued to rebound in her head, raw and stark. “Merlin’s beard—is she going to be okay? I’ve never seen anything like that, Madam Pomfrey. And I—I don’t think that was any type of Dark Magic or anything like that. She just collapsed in my arms, and started seizing—”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the routine,” Pomfrey cut in. Her voice had grown softer, but it was still brisk and stern. “Miss Black, I understand your concern for Miss Potter, but I simply have no time to get into any details at the moment.”

Andromeda’s eyes flickered from Pomfrey to the curtains closed around Grace’s cot. Her heart constricted painfully. Salazar, that was Regulus’s _best friend_. She couldn’t even imagine going back to the Slytherin table after what she had just witnessed, couldn’t even think about sitting beside her youngest cousin and pretending everything was alright.

“Is there anything I can do?” Andromeda asked.

Pomfrey’s hands curled around one of the bottles floating in the air. “Yes, well, I suppose there is one thing—” Andromeda straightened up, “—if you could fetch her brother for me, James Potter—”

Andromeda was already starting out the door. She knew where the older Potter was. She had seen him along with Sirius, at the edge of the Gryffindor table, laughing gaily about some or the other joke.

Andromeda hurtled through the corridors and hallways. When she stepped back into the Great Hall, it was like the past ten minutes had never happened. The whole of the room was a wall of light and warmth, with clumps of students scattered all about, eating and chatting merrily. The scene was so vivid and bright it burned against Andromeda’s eyes. In the back of her head, Grace’s screams rang on and on and on.

“Potter?” Andromeda asked when she reached the end of the Gryffindor table. Several students looked up—among them, Sirius—and gazed at Andromeda with heavy scrutiny.

“Andy?” Sirius questioned. He peered at her, and the grin dropped from his face. “Are you okay?”

She ignored him, eyes landing on the bespectacled student right next to him. “Potter? James Potter?”

James eyed her suspiciously. “Who’s asking?”

Sirius nudged James. “That’s my cousin, you dolt.”

“Oh,” James said. “The good one?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” he said again, and this time a smile flitted across his face. “In that case, what can I do for you?”

“Madam Pomfrey’s asking for you. You’ve got to come immediately. It’s an emergency.” The words fell from Andromeda’s mouth like a torrent—rushed and messy, with each word spilling into the next.

James blinked at her, brows furrowing. He rose from his seat with great hesitance. “Er—what?”

“It’s your sister,” Andromeda said, and willed for some of her somberness to transfer to him.

This got not only James’s attention but Sirius’s and a thin, scarred boy’s as well. The corners of Sirius’s lips dipped, and the scarred boy’s eyes flickered between James and Andromeda with something akin to apprehension. Several surrounding Gryffindors were listening in as well, although they were making a heavy effort to make it seem like they weren’t eavesdropping.

James, to Andromeda’s utter shock, scowled and dropped back to his seat. “Oh—seriously? How much did she bribe you to pull this stunt?”

Andromeda’s lips pursed. She resisted the urge to drag the boy by the ear and call him her every foul name she knew. “Look, your _sister_ is in the Hospital Wing. Pomfrey said it’s critical—”

“That’s bloody impossible,” James cut in, eyes blazing. “It’s already bad enough that I got doused in stink pellets the other day. Now she’s using _this_ to try to get one over me? That’s just _low_.”

Andromeda had put together by now that Grace and her brother were engaged in some sort of absurd feud, but she had never imagined it was this serious. She had never been given a reason to believe there was any type of bad blood between Grace and her brother. She had thought the stem of the conflict was some sort of petty argument—forgetting to pay back borrowed money, or using a dearly-held item without permission. She had never thought it might have been so bad that James wouldn’t come to his own sister—his own flesh and blood—in a time of need.

Andromeda was reminded, unwillingly, of Bellatrix. And the twisted grimace fixed on James’s lips only served to enforce that image.

“You listen to me very carefully, Potter,” Andromeda said seriously, and her voice dropped to a shadow of a whisper. She leaned towards James, and her dark eyes burned into his. “I don’t know what sort of blasted argument you’ve gotten into with your sister, but this isn’t a part of that. She collapsed on the way to the Hospital Wing and started fitting—”

“What?” James said, and the grimace had flickered into something softer. His voice was lighter. “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said.” Andromeda was beginning to think Grace’s brother might be a bit thick. “She collapsed, started fitting, and then she just—” Andromeda faltered, “—she just started screaming.”

James stared at her for one long, unnerving moment. “She,” he began very slowly, like he was only just now beginning to piece everything together, “wouldn’t have told you that.”

Andromeda’s forehead creased. “What?”

“Fuck,” James yelped, and he bolted up from the table. “Merlin—I’ve got to go—Sirius—”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Sirius said, but James was already halfway out of the Great Hall. Sirius followed James’s receding form for a moment longer before turning back to Andromeda. “What’s happened, exactly?”

“It’s not our business,” the scarred boy that had been on James’s other side said before Andromeda could so much as open her mouth.

“I don’t see how that’s the case,” Sirius muttered. His eyes flickered back to Andromeda, and he squinted at her. “It’s not a trick, is it?”

“What?”

“It’s not some trick Grace persuaded you into—”

“Merlin’s sake, Sirius,” the scarred boy snapped, drawing Sirius to a halt. “If it was a trick, do you think James would have run out of here like he’d been set on fire?”

“Depends on what the trick was, doesn’t it?”

“Stop being a git,” Andromeda told Sirius wryly. “It’s not a trick.”

“You’re telling the truth?”

Andromeda frowned at him. “I always tell you the truth, Sirius.”

Sirius shrugged. “Just checking.” He took a great bite of his shepherd’s pie and chewed noisily. “So—are you not going to tell me what happened?”

The scarred boy was growing steadily more annoyed. Before he could lash out once more, Andromeda said, “No, I’m not. It’s not something you need to know.”

“Fine,” Sirius said, but his tone was a tad waspish. “I’ll ask James later, anyway.” He poked at his pie with his fork. “I reckon she’s got some sort of disorder.”

Andromeda’s brows furrowed. “Who? Grace?”

At the same time, the scarred boy said, “Sirius, I’m saying this with all the love in the world: shut up.” His lips were set in a deep frown. “It doesn’t do anyone any good if you start spreading rumors.”

With that, the scarred boy pushed his own half-eaten plate away and rose from the table. He shouldered his bag roughly and stalked out of the Great Hall.

“Merlin,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes as his friend left. “He’s been touchy ever since Wednesday.”

“It might do you some good to listen to him,” Andromeda said pointedly, turning away from the Gryffindor table as well.

Her gaze travelled across the Great Hall, landing momentarily on the Slytherin table at the far right. Regulus’s head peeked out above the huddle of first-years. He was watching Andromeda vigilantly, and Andromeda knew he was expecting her back, expecting her to let him know what had happened, if Grace was okay, if he should come.

But she knew if she went to him, he would only grow upset. Andromeda couldn’t tell Regulus what had happened. That scarred friend of Sirius’s had been right, after all: it wasn’t any of her business. She oughtn’t spread word of what she had witnessed tonight. The rumor mill at Hogwarts worked expediently and nastily. If Andromeda spilled everything to Regulus, he might tell his other friends, who might tell their own friends. Sooner or later, the whole of the school would be gripped by some senseless story that Grace really did have a disorder.

Andromeda didn’t want that to happen. So, she ducked her head so she wouldn’t have to meet Regulus’s questioning stare and fled the Great Hall. She wandered aimlessly for a minute or so, sticking near the shadows the great stone columns created, before absentmindedly finding herself back near the Hospital Wing.

The light that spilled through the open double doors was dimmer now. When Andromeda was close enough, she could hear voices:

“—and _never_ this frequently?” Pomfrey was asking.

“No,” came James Potter’s voice. There was a tremble in the word. “There’s always months in between. It’s never—” his voice broke and he stopped.

“That’s quite enough,” Pomfrey said softly. “I’m sure your parents can fill in the rest.”

“Have you Flooed them? Could I—could I see them?”

James’s voice was so small and vulnerable that Andromeda felt instantly guilty for having heard what she did. She moved away from the corridor hastily and headed down the flight of stairs that led to the dungeons, trying to ignore all that she had learned.

But she couldn’t. Her mind ached to figure out what it did not know. It gravitated towards the bits and pieces it had picked up all through the night. What in in the name of Salazar’s serpent could have possessed Grace to collapse and seize and _scream_ like that? There was no precursor to what had happened, no warning, except—of course—Grace’s own insistence that she had to go to the Hospital Wing. James’s reaction had been rather perplexing, too. In about a half-minute he had gone from disbelieving to rattled to the bone, which meant that he had understood what it was that happened to Grace.

Sirius’s curt words— _I reckon she’s got some sort of disorder_ —floated through Andromeda’s head. She couldn’t find any reason to doubt what he had said.

* * *

“It would explain why she’s in N.E.W.T.-level Divination with us instead of Flying like the other first-years,” Ted said after Andromeda explained what had happened last night.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Andromeda nodded, and added that little tidbit to the incomplete map in her head.

She was trying to make sense of all that had happened last night—Grace’s fits, Pomfrey’s curtness, James’s change of mood. Sirius’s theory was gaining more and more credence, but Andromeda was reluctant to believe it, if only because she would have _noticed_ , right? It wasn’t as though Grace was showing up to Divination every week looking like she did last night—rattled and peaky. It was likely a one-time thing…but _what_ could it have been? What could have caused the first-year to scream like _that_?

“Are you sure it wasn’t just epilepsy?” Ted asked quietly as they rounded on the corner that led straight to the Hospital Wing.

“No,” Andromeda murmured. “I think that’s just a Muggle thing, right? I’m not certain witches and wizards are affected by that…and, even if they are, we’ve got potions for it.”

“I don’t know, Dromeda. _Someone_ in the wizarding world must’ve had epilepsy at some point,” Ted insisted. “Otherwise how would we have developed potions for it? Not to mention, it’s not like our biology is any different from that of Muggles. We all catch the same diseases, don’t we?”

“Maybe,” Andromeda shrugged. Ted had a vested interest in the differences between the magical and non-magical worlds, which Andromeda shared to some degree. If she were being honest, she was more interested in the Muggles’ lightning-magic. Healing and medicine, in comparison, were a bit boring. “But Muggles don’t get our diseases: Scrofungulus, Dragon Pox—”

“Yeah, well, how many Muggles do you know that regularly frolic about with dragons?”

Andromeda snorted. “That’s a good point. Maybe you should write about this for your final project for Muggle Studies.”

“That’s brilliant,” Ted beamed. “I’d have to get Swindells to sign off on it, though.”

Andromeda resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Swindells practically worshipped the ground Ted walked on, due to the fact he was the only Muggle-born in the entire N.E.W.T. Muggle Studies class. Ted would have to submit something truly heinous as his project proposal for Swindells to even _consider_ rejecting it. Even then, Andromeda suspected Swindells might accept it on the grounds of ‘subverting expectations’ or some bollocks like that.

“Have you got it?” Andromeda asked as they reached the threshold of the Hospital Wing.

“Got what?”

“Ted,” Andromeda sighed, stopping and turning to him. “I _reminded_ you before breakfast—”

“Only teasing, darling,” he said hastily. He patted his knapsack. “I’ve got the Honeydukes Deluxe—”

“Come off it, Potter!” a shrill voice cried out. “Let me _through_.”

Ted and Andromeda both froze. Ted’s eyes flickered towards the open entrance of the Hospital Wing. Andromeda peered within: there was a slight, redheaded girl angrily brandishing a thick textbook at a very cross James Potter. James, it seemed, had taken it upon himself to stand guard outside a cluster of closed curtains.

“Er—what should we do?” Andromeda asked unsurely. The girl’s eyes were lit with fury, and she seemed only a second away from throwing her book squarely against James’s head.

“Don’t ask me,” Ted said immediately. “ _You’re_ the Prefect.”

“Oh, right,” Andromeda said. “I always forget.”

“Yeah, you do—until it’s convenient for you, like the time you took twenty points from Ravenclaw because Henderson insulted your dress style.”

“I’ll have you know, insulting a Prefect is against the rules,” Andromeda sniffed, stepping into the Hospital Wing and striding towards the arguing second-years.

“There isn’t a reason for you to be here, Evans,” James argued. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his brows were knitted together. He looked rather listless today, not at all like the bright, cheery boy Andromeda had lightly threatened last night.

“Yes, there _is_ ,” Evans huffed. “Your sister never showed to the library last night, and Pince interrogated me for nearly fifteen minutes about it. If she’s skipping our tutoring sessions, then _I’m_ going to get in trouble—”

“Are you thick, Evans? I _told_ you she’s in the Hospital Wing.”

Evans pursed her lips. “If that’s the case, then why won’t you open those curtains? If that’s the case, then why can’t I _hear_ your sister?”

“She’s asleep!”

“What’s going on here?” Andromeda started, and immediately regretted how hesitant she sounded. Twelve-year-olds could sense doubt and insecurity like a shark could blood, and they absolutely took advantage of it.

James’s eyes flitted towards Andromeda. She thought he might relax once he caught sight of her, since she was a Prefect and a seventh-year _and_ Sirius’s ‘good’ cousin, but his gaze only grew duller and his shoulders tensed.

“Nothing,” Evans said immediately.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” Ted said breezily.

“ _Evans_ ,” James muttered darkly, “is assaulting the sick and injured.”

Evans’s brows flew up. “ _Me_? _Assaulting_? _Sick_ and _injured_?” She gestured widely at the entirety of the Hospital Wing, which was empty save for the four of them and, presumably, Grace, who was hidden behind the fort of curtains. “There isn’t anyone here, Potter! I highly doubt your sister’s been admitted into the Hospital Wing. I think she’s skiving off—”

“She’s not,” James bit. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“She destroyed the library along with you the other day,” Evans pointed out, and her voice was tight. “And then she doused the Gryffindor table with stink pellets two days ago. So, you know what? I’m beginning to think skipping tutoring sessions is _exactly_ what she would do.”

James bristled, and a spark was lit in his dull eyes.

“Actually,” Andromeda cut in before James could pull or say something drastic, “he’s right. Grace was admitted into the Hospital Wing last night. I was the one who escorted her here.”

Evans’s eyes flew to Andromeda and landed on silvery Prefect badge pinned to her robes. Evans’s mouth snapped shut and she deflated. “Oh.”

“Well—I’m glad that’s been resolved,” Ted said. He pulled out the two packages of Honeydukes Deluxe Sweets from his knapsack and started towards Grace’s bedside table.

James immediately blocked his path. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Er—” Ted brandished the packages, “—is it not obvious?”

James squinted at the sweets, as though trying to determine whether or not they really were sweets, before giving a jerky little nod and letting Ted place them on the table. Andromeda might have found the protective gesture sweet were it not for the fact that something seemed off about this whole situation.

“You said Grace was asleep?” she asked, and craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse past the closed curtains.

“Yes,” James said.

“Are you sure? You two were borderline yelling when Ted and I got here.”

“I—” James frowned deeply, “— _yes_ , I’m sure. Merlin, what are you? An Auror? Wait—” his eyes flickered to Ted, “— _who_ even are you?”

“I’m a friend of Grace’s,” Ted said simply.

“ _You_?” James said with heavy disbelief. “But you’re a seventh-year.”

“Huh, really?” Ted said lightheartedly. “I never noticed.”

James didn’t seem at all impressed by the joke, which Andromeda supposed was understandable. She wouldn’t exactly be in a joking mood if her sisters—well, Narcissa at least—wound up in the Hospital Wing.

“Well,” Andromeda said, grabbing Ted by the arm, “if Grace is asleep, we’ll just stop by later.”

“She’ll probably be asleep then, too,” James said readily. Andromeda privately wondered if he had some sort of grudge against visitors.

“You want to know what I think?” Evans began.

“Honestly?” James said. “I actually really don’t.”

Evans glared at him. “I don’t think she’s in there. I think you’re lying, Potter.”

“Merlin’s gnarled foot,” James muttered. “Why would I be lying about this?”

“She really was admitted to the Hospital Wing,” Andromeda insisted.

“Yeah—last night, you said,” Evans agreed. “But I bet she’s been released and Potter’s helping her terrorize the school with a new prank.”

Andromeda honestly wouldn’t put it past Grace or her brother to do something like that, but she highly doubted the younger Potter was up to pulling pranks and gallivanting across the castle after the events of last night.

Andromeda frowned. “Now, I don’t think—”

“Is there a party going on in here or something?” a loud but thoroughly disgruntled voice called out.

Andromeda twisted around. Sirius and his friends—the scarred boy from last night and a pudgy boy she hadn’t seen before—entered the Hospital Wings, their arms laden with parcels of sweets. Sirius’s steps were hard, and the usual easygoing grin he wore on his face had been swapped in favor for a resentful grimace. The scarred boy seemed rather irritated as well, and didn’t say a word as he and his friends edged closer to James. The pudgy boy squeaked when he caught sight of Lily’s furious glare and James’s cross expression, and attempted to book it. But Sirius caught onto the back of his robes and hauled him over before he could manage to escape.

“Oh, great,” Evans said with much sarcasm. “Called in the cavalry, have you?”

“Andy?” Sirius said, throwing his sweets onto the Grace’s bedside table. There were packets of ice mice and chocolate frogs. Sirius’s friends gingerly added some packets of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans on top. “What’re you doing here?”

“Just wanted to check up on Grace,” Andromeda said. Sirius turned towards James and engaged him some sort of strange staring contest. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Me?” Sirius said coolly. “Oh, nothing—”

“Mate,” James cut in, and his voice was weary, “I told you it’s nothing personal. I just can’t give you the whole story.”

“Sirius,” the scarred boy sighed, “I think you’re taking this a bit out of proportion, too. We’ve dropped off the sweets. Let’s go.”

“That was only phase one, Remus,” Sirius protested. “I want to see Grace.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, she’s asleep,” Ted said. His eyes wavered amongst the small crowd of children. “I’m also just now realizing that Pomfrey probably won’t appreciate it if we’re _all_ loitering around here, so maybe—”

“Excellent point,” Sirius said. He nodded towards Andromeda, Ted, and Evans. “Why don’t you lot head out?”

“Excuse me?” Evans seethed. “I was here _first_.”

“So?” James said. “ _None_ of you should actually be here, bar me.”

“Look,” Sirius started, “you’ve all had your chance to talk to Grace. Now it’s my turn.”

“I actually never even got a chance to _see_ her, let alone talk to her.” Evans’s vivid green eyes landed on James once more. “Whatever you’re hiding had better not be putting students at risk.”

The scarred boy—Remus—suddenly let out a barrage of loud coughs. The pudgy boy patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“You okay, mate?” Ted asked with concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Remus looked to Sirius. “We’ve given the sweets. Grace is asleep. You’re so-called ‘ingenious plan’ isn’t very ingenious at all, Sirius. Let’s just _go_.”

“Now, hold on,” Sirius protested. His eyes darted between Evans and James. “Evans has figured out something’s amiss, too, so I _can’t_ be mistaken.”

“Hold on yourself,” James said, dropping his arms. “What do you mean ‘ingenious plan’?”

“Nothing,” Sirius said defensively.

“He’s touchy you didn’t tell him what happened last night,” Remus explained without a trace of apology in his voice. He sounded rather put-off about being dragged down to the Hospital Wing by Sirius. “So, he was going to persuade your sister into telling him instead.”

James stared at Sirius. “How in the—” his eyes landed on the ridiculous pile of sweets, “—Merlin, were you going to just bribe her with candy or something?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything if you’re not going to tell me anything,” Sirius said.

Evans scoffed. “Only you would stoop to such childish antics, Black.”

“Look,” James sighed. “Grace is _asleep_ right now, so—”

“How’s she not woken up already?” the pudgy boy said. His voice was reedy. “Sirius came in here _shouting_.”

“Excellent point, Peter,” Sirius said, clapping the pudgy boy on his back. Peter yelped in surprise. “It’s nearly one in the afternoon. I doubt she’s still sleeping.”

“People need rest, Sirius,” Remus said matter-of-factly. “We ought to keep it down, and—” his eyes flickered to Ted, who was looking on with faint amusement, “—perhaps some of us _should_ leave. I don’t think Pomfrey will like it if we’re all here at once.”

There were seven students in here now, and the maximum amount of visitors allotted for admitted students was actually three. And, to be honest, James Potter was right: he was the only one who really had any need to be here. It was _his_ sister for Merlin’s sake.

“I agree,” Andromeda said, drawing herself up. “Let’s leave—”

“ _What_?” Sirius said incredulously. “That’s bollocks. I’m not leaving without seeing Grace! How’s she to know I stopped by? How am I ever supposed to find out what happened?”

“Sometimes you’re not meant to know,” Ted said. “Curiosity killed the cat, after all.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?” Sirius said, momentarily brought off track. “What cat?”

“It’s an _expression_ , you twat,” Evans bit.

“Like a Muggle one? Why cats?”

“Are you lot leaving or what?” James demanded.

“Not until I find out what’s going on,” Sirius said resolutely.

Andromeda felt like this was all getting a bit out of hand. Whether or not Grace was awake was no longer the real issue. “Look, Sirius,” she sighed. “I’m sure we’re all worried for Grace, but the truth of the matter is that none of us have a right to know what’s happened to her. We should respect her privacy—”

“Is it really too much to ask to just _see_ her?” Sirius said.

“Er—why are all of you here?” a new voice piped in.

Andromeda turned to find Regulus padding forward. He had his own pile of sweets—candy floss and cockroach clusters—in addition to a couple of books haphazardly thrown into his open knapsack. His brows furrowed as he took in all the people crowded around the curtained-off bed.

James threw his hands up. “Great! Wonderful! Is there anyone else you lot have invited, or is that it?”

“Is Grace okay?” Regulus asked, setting down his addition to the pile of sweets on Grace’s bedside. One of the chocolate frogs fell down.

“Cockroach clusters?” the pudgy boy—Peter, was it?—said, frowning. “Who wants to see cockroaches when they’re on the mend?”

“Oi,” Sirius said, smacking him lightly, “don’t insult my brother—”

“It was a _criticism_ , not an insult—”

“Grace likes cockroach clusters,” Regulus said defensively. “They’re her favorite, although I don’t understand why….”

“Cockroaches are her favorite insect,” James said easily. “That’s why.”

Evans’s lips curled with disgust. “God, what is _wrong_ with your family?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” James frowned. “Cockroaches are wicked. Grace read a Muggle book about them—supposedly, they can survive explosions.”

Remus sighed.

Andromeda cleared her throat. “Alright—why don’t we all get going? There’s really no point in us hanging about back here, talking about—” she wrinkled her nose, “—cockroaches.”

“What?” Regulus said, alarmed. “What about Grace? I wanted to see her. I brought her _The Miraculous Mage_.” Regulus pulled the first book of the series from his knapsack to show Andromeda.

Sirius tugged at the knapsack. “Did you bring the whole bookstore as well?”

“Look, I appreciate that you’ve all dropped in on Grace’s behalf,” James said magnanimously. “I’ll be sure to tell Grace later, when she’s _awake_ —”

“Bollocks!” Sirius cried out. His voice was brash and sharp, and sounded very much like the whistle Madam Hooch blew to signal the start of a Quidditch match. “Like she’s _still_ asleep after the ruckus we’ve made.”

“Sirius…” Remus began tiredly.

“Black, would you keep it down?” Evans snapped. “Christ, it’s like you were raised in a barn!”

“A barn? Is that another sort of Muggle expression?”

“I think we should _all_ keep it down,” Ted stepped in once more. “Come on, let’s go. Or I’ll get Pomfrey, and _she’ll_ disperse you lot. She’ll give you detention, too, if she finds you’re badgering sick students.”

“Bollocks!” Sirius cried out again. “I haven’t even gotten the _chance_ to badger Grace!”

“Five points from Gryffindor,” Andromeda said, growing tired of whatever petty reason Sirius had chosen to be irrationally angry about.

Sirius gaped at her. Remus let out another worldly sigh. Evans glared at Sirius with the strength and intensity of ten thousand burning suns.

“Can’t I stay?” Regulus asked James. “ _I’m_ quiet, and—besides—Grace and I were supposed to spend the day together—”

“Doing _what_?” James said. “Prancing about the library, reading children’s books?”

Regulus’s shoulders dropped, and Andromeda stepped closer to her youngest cousin. “Look,” she said sharply, “there’s no reason to get snappy with one another. We’ve long established that none of us should really be here at this point. If any of you stay a moment longer, I _will_ take House points.”

“This is the _Hospital_ _Wing_ ,” Sirius said. “We’re all _allowed_ to be here. You know what? I’ve got rather a sore throat, I think.” He let out a weak cough.

“You act more and more ridiculous with each passing day,” Remus said exasperatedly. He grabbed Sirius by the upper arm and began to tug him away.

“No!” Sirius cried out, and wriggled his way out of Remus’s grasp. “I _refuse_ to be silenced! I _refuse_ to be put down—”

“Another five points from Gryffindor,” Andromeda said.

“Oh, _come on_. I thought we were _family_ —”

“What?” Andromeda quirked a brow. “Did you think I wasn’t serious earlier?”

“Look, could you all leave?” James pleaded. “I’m going, too—”

“Go, then,” Sirius said, and he marched towards the curtains “ _I’m_ going to see Grace. _You_ can’t stop me—”

“ _Merlin’s ingrown toenail_ —she’s not here, you pillocks!” James exploded. He wrung open the curtains, and the seven students before him stared dumbfoundedly at the empty bed.

“Ha!” Evans said. “I _knew_ it!”

“Then why the bloody hell were you here all this while?” Sirius demanded.

“I was talking to Pomfrey! And I was _just_ about to leave when I saw _Evans_ , and I _knew_ she was going to kick up a fuss—”

“Hey!” Evans said indignantly.

“—especially if I told her Grace had been transferred to St. Mungo’s—”

“ _What_?!” all seven of them said at once.

“—so I closed the curtains around Grace’s bed, and told Evans she was asleep. How was I supposed to know Evans was going to kick up a fuss regardless? How was I supposed to know all of _you_ —” James glared, “—were going to barge in here and attack me with all your questions! And insults!”

“You’ve insulted us more than we have you!” Evans protested.

“Let’s rewind a bit,” Andromeda began slowly. “You said Grace was at _St. Mungo’s_? Is she alright?”

“Well, obviously not, seeing as she’s at St. Mungo’s,” James bit out. “I dunno, okay? Would you all sod off now? Merlin knows my mum already interrogated me good and proper this morning....” James shoved his hands into his robe pockets and continued to mutter to himself as he left the Hospital Wing.

“Tetchy....” Peter murmured.

“Of course he’s tetchy!” Sirius’s voice had bled into something softer, and the hard grimace melted away. “He’s _worried_. C’mon, you lot—” he nodded to his friends, “—we ought to go cheer him up—”

“ _And_ apologize,” Andromeda said sternly.

“Yeah, sure,” Sirius said. He reached over to Grace’s bedside table and began to pool the mound of sweets into his arms.

Evans stared at him. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Well, she’s not here to enjoy them, is she?” was all the explanation Sirius offered.

“Typical,” Evans muttered, shaking her head.

Sirius gathered not only his own packets of sweets but Regulus’s cockroach clusters and candy floss as well. When he laid a hand on the deluxe box of Honeydukes chocolates, Ted cleared his throat loudly.

“I can’t believe this,” Remus said. He grabbed half of the sweets in Sirius’s arms and threw them back onto the bedside table. He then took Sirius by the arm and began leading him out. “This was a terrible idea.”

“You say that about all my ideas,” Sirius grumbled as they left, Peter following closely behind.

"Yeah, so it follows that...?"

"That you've got poor judgement?"

When their lighthearted bickering faded with distance, Andromeda turned towards the remaining students. Regulus was staring forlornly at the remaining cockroach clusters while Evans shifted awkwardly near the rack of curtains.

“Sorry about earlier,” she told Andromeda and Ted. “I _was_ concerned for Grace earlier, but then I bumped into Potter and got a bit—er—suspicious. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be upset.” A brief frown flitted across her face. “I didn’t really think he was capable of feeling anything but arrogance, to be honest.”

“Well, it _is_ his sister,” Ted pointed out.

“Yeah…” she shifted once more, glanced at Regulus, and then left after giving Andromeda and Ted a brisk wave.

Andromeda let out a sigh and wrapped an arm around Regulus’s shoulders. “C’mon—have you had lunch, yet?”

“Er—” Regulus peeled away from Andromeda, and pulled out an entire tin of apple tie from beneath his books. “I was going to?”

Andromeda and Ted both laughed.

“I got it from the kitchens—”

“ _You_ know where the kitchens are?” Ted said, mildly impressed. “I didn’t figure that out until I was in my fifth-year, and I _live_ right across from there.”

Regulus stared at Ted strangely.

“Don’t worry about him,” Andromeda said, brushing it off. She was worried if Ted got wrapped up in any sort of conversation, Regulus might figure out that he was Muggle-born. And she absolutely did _not_ need that getting back to her family, not right now, anyway. “Did you bring that for Grace?”

“Yeah. One of the house-elves likes Grace, and she made it for her.” Regulus put the pie back in his bag and followed Andromeda and Ted out of the Hospital Wing.

“You’re a good friend, Regulus.”

Regulus beamed. “Thanks. I was thinking of inviting Grace home for Christmas holiday. Do you think Mother would let me?”

Andromeda’s lips pressed together. She stopped Regulus just a few meters shy of the Great Hall, and glanced at Ted as discreetly as possible. She inclined her head towards the entrance of the Great Hall.

Ted got the hint. He raised a hand in farewell. “Well, I ought to get going. I’ll see you two around!”

With that, he skirted around the corner and disappeared.

“Who _was_ that?” Regulus asked, craning his neck.

“Just somebody in our Divination class. We bumped into each other when I was heading to the Hospital Wing,” Andromeda explained away quickly. “Anyway—do _you_  think your mother would let you have Grace over?”

Regulus was mulling it over. Andromeda already knew the answer. Aunt Walburga took blood purity and tradition to the _extreme_. Andromeda could still recall the wild, shrill screams of the Howler Sirius had received the day after he was Sorted into a House notorious for churning out blood traitors. (She had no idea how Sirius was able to brush that off so quickly. In fact, he hadn’t seemed miffed in the slightest; if anything, it had only emboldened him.)

Whether or not the Potters were really pure-blood had become something of a moot point within the ancient pure-blood families of England. The Potters, as far as Andromeda’s entire family was concerned, certainly didn’t _act_ pure-blood. They advocated for Muggle rights, spent time amongst Muggles, and worked with Muggle-borns. So, of course, dear old Aunt Walburga would have a problem with inviting a Potter over.

“I dunno,” Regulus admitted at last. “Mother has never mentioned the Potters, so I don’t know if she’ll have anything against them. But, last year, Sirius went to the Potters'—” Andromeda’s brows raised, “—for Easter. He told us he was staying at Hogwarts for a project, though, which makes me think that if Sirius didn’t want Mother to know he was going to the Potters...then Mother doesn’t like the Potters?”

Andromeda had no idea Regulus had learned of this, and she was a bit worried that he might let word of it reach back to his parents. There was a reason, after all, as to why Sirius had told Andromeda—and only Andromeda—about the secret Easter visit. Andromeda had always hidden Sirius’s secrets. She had always helped to lessen any doubt his parents might cast on him, had always helped him to figure out a way to do what his parents would not approve of. Andromeda was good at this, after all. She had spent her whole life like this. She was a vault.

And Regulus was not.

Andromeda glanced at her youngest cousin. It wasn’t that Regulus might accidentally let slip secrets like the ones she and Sirius had. He wasn’t dense, of course. He was anything but. Regulus could read people better than she could ever hope to. He had an innate talent for it, and Andromeda suspected it was because Regulus had spent all his life trying to read his parents—trying to figure out whether they were angry, whether they were happy, what it even was that they demanded from him.

And that was exactly the problem. Regulus spent every single minute trying to please his parents. He was incredibly impressionable; the fact that he had glued himself to Grace Potter’s side like Sirius had to James Potter was evidence enough of this. One withering glance from Orion Black, one almighty shriek from Walburga Black, and Regulus was done for. _Everything_ would come spilling out at once.

Andromeda was sure Regulus didn’t mean to do it. He was just…young was all. Too young. Too afraid. Too Slytherin—quick and unrelenting in his grasp for self-preservation. Regulus would always tell his parents what they wanted to hear, if it meant he would be screamed at less, tolerated more.  

His soul was cut of a material much softer than Andromeda’s and Sirius’s were.

“I think you’ve answered your own question, Regulus,” Andromeda said gently. “Your parents probably wouldn’t like it if Grace came over.”

“But you don’t have a problem with her,” Regulus pointed out.

Well, of course she didn’t. Andromeda was a separate case entirely, but she could hardly go explaining all her reasons—all she’d learned over her past seven years at Hogwarts—to Regulus. “I suspect I get along with her for the same reason you do,” was all Andromeda said, and she hoped Regulus might just leave it at that.

“Okay,” Regulus said, and she could tell he was not at all convinced.

“Have you considered…doing what Sirius did? Spinning an excuse and going to the Potters’?” Andromeda asked very carefully.

Regulus’s eyes widened. “But—well—” he deflated, crestfallen. “I’ve thought about it, actually.”

Andromeda was mildly surprised by this. “And?”

“You wouldn’t tell Mother or Father, right?”

“What’s there to tell?”

Regulus shifted nervously. “Well, I don’t know if it’d work. I don’t even know if Grace would want to invite me over. Even if she did, I couldn’t go during Christmas holiday. Mother wouldn’t let us miss the Yuletide dinner.”

Andromeda resisted the urge to roll her eyes. That blasted dinner was a snoozefest. Why in Merlin’s name anybody in the Black family felt the need to hold it let alone attend it was beyond Andromeda. The younger kids were forced to stay silent, the older ones were ignored, and the adults only traded thinly-veiled insults.

“Then go for Easter?”

Regulus didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Er—maybe.”

A wan little smile flitted across Andromeda’s lips. “You wouldn’t risk it, would you?”

“What if I got in trouble?” Regulus whispered, as though, even now, his mother could be listening in, could hear the treacherous plans rolling in his head.

“You’d only get in trouble if you let yourself, Regulus.”

He looked away from Andromeda. His hands trailed over the strap of his bag repeatedly. “I didn’t mean to tell Mother about what Cissy did,” he let out very quickly, voice pained and sullen. “I really didn’t. It’s just…she was _asking_ and Bella was there, too, and I—I—”

Andromeda wrapped her arm around his shoulders once more and drew him to her. She gave him a gentle squeeze.

“I know,” she said. “I know, Regulus.”

* * *

“You should give him a chance,” Ted said after a moment.

Andromeda shifted on his chest, her dark, wavy hair splaying out, and looked up at him incredulously. “Seriously?”

Andromeda had gone up to the Hufflepuff boy’s dormitory shortly after lunch. Her conversation with Regulus played endlessly in her head. Her heart was torn up about it. She wanted to help him, wanted to orchestrate some sort of get-together with Grace during Christmas holiday, but she didn’t know how to go about it. She didn’t know how to involved Regulus in a way that wouldn’t have him suffer some sort of stress-induced aneurysm.

“Yeah,” Ted said. “The kid hasn’t enough nerve. I reckon if you give him some responsibility, something that affects _him_ , something he wouldn’t give up to his parents willingly, he might become—I dunno—less….”

“Panicky?”

“Sure.”

Andromeda bit her bottom lip. “I’m not sure what to do.”

“Okay,” Ted said. “Hear me out on this—”

“Oh, great,” Andromeda murmured.

“—he wants to hang out with Grace during holiday, yeah? Why don’t you help him out with that, make that into a big secret? If Regulus manages to keep that to himself, then you’ll see how much you can trust him, how much he’s grown up. If he blows it…well, he’ll likely be the only one in trouble, right?”

“Unless he mentions my own involvement,” Andromeda pointed out.

Ted faltered. “Yeah—that wouldn’t be good. Unless you can keep yourself out of it?”

“Maybe.” Andromeda paused. She stared absentmindedly into the mustard yellow of Ted’s bed hangings. “I don’t blame him, of course. He’s just caught up in the spin of it. You know how families like mine are—”

“You mean the hoity-toity pure-bloods?”

“Yeah,” Andromeda said rather dryly. “You know what _they_ were like, Rabastan Lestrange and the lot. Imagine having people like that around you your whole life, drilling nonsense into your head from sunup till sundown. Some of us break out of it, but others—” but _Regulus_ , “—get caught up in the whirlpool of it. And they want to get out—I think he wants to get out, Ted—but the current is so strong, and he’s so small.”

Ted didn’t say anything for a long moment. Andromeda wondered if he had been _hurt_ by what she’d said, but she couldn’t imagine why. Ted hadn’t really been bullied by the pure-bloods who were a couple of years above them (it helped that he was a Hufflepuff, that he stayed out of sight and didn’t involve himself in much drama); he’d mostly just witnessed them bullying others.

Just as Andromeda was about to ask if something was the matter, Ted spoke: “I fucking hate Rabastan Lestrange.”

“ _That’s_ what you got out of that?” Andromeda said disapprovingly.

“What?” Ted said. “I can’t hate the tosser who manhandles you at every available moment? I can’t hate the git who has the gall to think he’ll be getting with _my_  fiancée?”

Andromeda rolled her eyes. “Jealousy isn’t a good color on you.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not jealous, then,” Ted retorted. “What reason do I have to be jealous of _him_? S’not like I’m walking around, wishing earnestly to be a baboon.”

She snorted. “Baboon is too kind a word for Rabastan.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ your only criticism on what I just said?”

“I’ll be seeing him at the Yuletide dinner, you know.” She felt Ted go tense besides her, which, quite frankly, was a little bit ridiculous. If anyone should be going rigid as a board at the mere mention of Rabastan Lestrange, it was Andromeda. She was the one who actually had to see him, who had to put up with his crass jokes and leering eyes and tight grip.

Merlin, how’d she get saddled with the brash Lestrange brother while Bellatrix—snarling, biting Bellatrix—had gotten the timid one? It was like her parents and the brothers’ parents had had some sort of miscommunication when they were first sorting out the betrothals, and then neither pair decided to correct it—either out of embarrassment or social courtesy.

“What if you didn’t go?” Ted said. “What if you said you were staying here and came over to mine for Christmas? Mum wouldn’t mind; she’s been dying to see you again.”

The desire to go to Ted’s little cottage in Wiltshire for Christmas burned so fiercely in Andromeda’s chest it was a surprise it didn’t set her whole body aflame. She had only seen the cramped home once—very briefly, during the evening of the last day of her Easter holiday in sixth year—but the visit had been so full of warmth and love and light that she had felt like she had lived there her whole life.

“I can’t,” Andromeda said quietly. “The event is going to serve as Bellatrix’s engagement announcement.”

“You don’t like Bellatrix.” There wasn’t anything rude in Ted’s voice. It was just a fact, torn off his tongue without any feeling, but Andromeda felt defensive all the same.

“It’s not _that_ ,” Andromeda said, a frown overtaking her features. Her childhood felt so far away, as distant as a dream, but she could remember snippets from it with startling clarity. She remembered those days Bella, Cissy, and she had been stuck to each other’s sides like shadows.

She remembered when she was seven and Cissy was five and Bella was a whole _ten_ years old. They had worshipped the ground their older sister walked. Bella would curse a boy six ways to Tuesday if he so much as glowered at her sisters. When Cissy had a bad dream, she’d sneak into Andromeda’s room. And then Andromeda would gather her little sister and whisk them off to Bella’s room, because it was Bella, and only Bella, who could make something as large and terrifying as a nightmare seem as insignificant and dull as a Flobberworm. _You’re sniffling over that?_ she’d say. _Come, now, you’re more ferocious than that._

Bella—who was straight-backed and quick to retort and never, ever backed down—was everything Andromeda had wanted to be. Bellatrix had _courage_ , and it was just too bad she had never been Sorted into Gryffindor, where it could have been put to good use.

“We’ve just grown apart,” Andromeda said weakly. It was not just a lie; it was a _bad_ lie, but Ted didn’t contest it in the slightest. It was still difficult for Andromeda to accept the truth of the matter. She had seen the Mark on Bellatrix’s arm this past summer. She knew what it meant. She had read the _Prophet_ on the few days she could actually stomach the news. It wasn’t anything too bad—just the odd disappearance now and again—but it was enough to make you think.

And Andromeda did a lot of thinking.

“Come to mine,” Ted asked again, and this time his voice was soft and sweet as honey. He pressed a kiss against the crown of her head.

“I can’t just leave Cissy there by herself,” Andromeda said.

Ted didn’t put up a fight after that. He had never met Narcissa formally (and probably never would), but he knew how much Andromeda cared about her sisters, knew how badly she wanted to rewrite the path Narcissa was walking on.

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, Andromeda’s curls brushing against Ted’s jaw every time she shifted a little. Ted began running his free hand over her scalp, and Andromeda’s eyes flickered to a close. Her thoughts brewed in her head like a storm. All problems, it seemed, were really just one: Bellatrix’s past, Narcissa’s future, Regulus’s softness, Sirius’s loudness. It was all just expectation. It was all family.

“Are we still…” Ted began and then stopped. His hand froze on her head. “At the end of the year, I mean—”

“Yes,” Andromeda said firmly. It was a conversation Ted had begun to bring up more and more recently, ever since the first day of crystal gazing in Divination. Andromeda wished she had never said anything about inconstancy; it seemed to have struck a chord.

The hand resumed its stroking. “I’ve got it all planned out in my head. Is that strange?”

“No.” A smile flittered across Andromeda’s face. “I’ve daydreamed about it, especially in Vector’s class, when he goes on those long tangents.”

“What’re you imagining?”

“We get off the Hogwarts Express,” Andromeda said slowly, “and we walk across the platform, on opposite sides.”

“No one suspects a thing, eh?”

“No,” Andromeda agreed. “But you’re keeping an eye out, waiting for my cue. I go up to my parents, but I haven’t got my trunk. And Mother asks me where it is, of course. She says, ‘If you don’t find that trunk in the next five minutes, we won’t make it to the manor in time for so-and-so’s visit.’ And then I look her in the eye—” Andromeda twisted across Ted’s chest so they were now face to face. Her dark eyes bored into his light ones. “I look her in the eye, and I say, ‘Actually, I’m not going to the manor. I’m going somewhere else.’ She’ll be cross then, I suspect.” There was a grin working its way across Ted’s face. “And I’ll tell her I’m _not_  marrying Rabastan Lestrange, that brute, and then she’ll be _very_ cross. And then I’ll tell her I’m marrying the person who’s got my trunk—”

“Wonder who that could be?” Ted joked.

Andromeda chuckled. “Mother will be _furious_ , I imagine. So will Father, if he shows. And I’ll point you out amongst the crowd. I’ll tell her, ‘You see that tall, gangly fellow with the mussed fair hair? The one who’s so valiantly carrying two trunks instead of one? I’m marrying him. He’s a Muggle-born, but he’s braver and smarter and kinder than any pure-blood I’ve ever met and I love him.’” Andromeda’s eyes were shining. “And then I’m going to bound across the platform to you, snog you senseless, and then shout one final, parting ‘fuck you!’ to my parents before Apparating away with you.”

Ted roared with laughter. “Let’s do that. It’s much better than what I had planned, Dromeda.”

“What were you thinking of?”

“Nothing special. I just wanted to whisk you off to Wiltshire the moment the train stopped and never leave your side ever again.” His eyes were so heartfelt that Andromeda was seized by the sudden, inescapable desire to kiss him.

So, she did.

* * *

Later, when Andromeda was in her own dormitory, her thoughts circled back to Regulus. _Give him a chance_ , Ted had said.

Andromeda wanted to. She burned for it, hoped fiercely that Regulus would break free of the hold his family had on him, like Sirius had done during his Sorting, like Andromeda would come summer. She thought Ted was on the right track—giving Regulus a secret that actually _meant_ something to him might teach him to act in his own self-interest for once, to find happiness that didn’t rely on pleasing his parents.

But she couldn’t risk getting herself in trouble. She had had too many close scrapes, already—praising Muggles for harnessing light in a bulb during that one dinner, going to Ted’s towards the end of sixth year’s Easter holiday, arguing with Bellatrix about her involvement in Muggle disappearances. She couldn’t have her parents raise anymore suspicions, not when summer was looming close, not when she had so much at stake.

So, how could she help Regulus?

It was obvious _she_ couldn’t organize a way for Regulus to meet Grace during the holiday. She needed someone else to do it, someone who could shrug off the blame, someone who didn’t give a rat’s tail about what Aunt Walburga thought was proper.

As soon as she thought it, the answer came to Andromeda as easily as a dream: Uncle Alphard, of course. Uncle Alphard, who had always been kinder than his siblings, who didn’t give a damn about convention, who broke off his own betrothal when his parents passed on and didn’t bother marrying after that, who Andromeda highly suspected had a Muggle telephone hidden in the attic of his house.

Andromeda picked up a quill and a piece of parchment from her bedside. She had only the broad strokes of a plan in mind and wasn’t sure how it might all come together, but Uncle Alphard was her best bet. He would not give her up. He hadn’t back in fourth year, when Andromeda sent him a frantic owl telling him she’d kissed a _Muggle-born_ of all people, so why would he now?

 _Dear Uncle Alphard_ , Andromeda began penning. _I was wondering if you could help Regulus and Sirius spend some time with their friends during Christmas holiday. Their friends are Potters, you see…._


	11. Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Potter parents fret, Sirius lets slip a dangerous secret, and Avery continues to surprise Grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long break! I was finishing up exams and starting my new job, but now I'm finally free and adjusted. Updates will hopefully be more frequent!
> 
> I hope you're still enjoying the story. Let me know what you think! :)

_Two eyes lit up in the dark like twin sparks. They burned into the night steadily, like the flame of a wax candle. She could not look into them directly. She was afraid she might be scorched by the intensity of the stare. If she looked too deep and too long, she might find out something better left unknown. No—the fear was greater than that. If she looked, the unknown might find out something about her, something she needed to keep hidden._

_What did it mean to hide? It was a chick in an egg, the pale shell of it cracking open, a breath caught, stillness into motion, the birth of movement. It was a hand under the table, skirting along the border, stopping only when it found another hand in wait. It was a voice caught in the throat, half-spoken and half-silent, slipping off the edge of the tongue, anchored by some invisible thing called sense. It was a secret tucked into the pit of her soul._

“Have you something to say now?”

_There were two eyes that were less eyes and more embers smoldering in the shadows. They flickered, now and again, but they did not blink. They roared, now and again, but they never overtook her. She was afraid of them, but she didn’t know why. There was a secret she had to keep, but she didn’t know what. She only knew what it might look like._

_Chick in an egg—with fuzz so downy it seemed to be made of the same material clouds were. It had an enormous head, this chick, and despite the fact it was newborn, it wanted to march into a band of roosters. Not yet, sweet hatchling, not yet. It cheeped in protested. It’s not worth it, sweet hatchling. It squawked in indignation. I can’t let you do it, sweet hatchling. The chick reared its beady little eyes and spoke,_ “You don’t understand.”

_Hand under the table—soft and slight and so still one might have thought it was made of alabaster. This hand was known. There was a gem pressed into one of its fingers, oversized and sleek. This hand was afraid. It trembled against the teak wood. This hand was strange. It wished desperately for a companion, but when the companion came, it pushed it away._

_Voice caught in the throat—a snake that had begun to work its way out of its cage before realizing it was safer inside than outside._ “What is it?” _a new voice asked, and this was nothing like the timid one. It surged from the mouth like a thoroughbred would into the field. There was a magnetism to it, an intensity to it, and—for the briefest of moments—it seemed it might pull the other voice into its orbit._ “No—I—” _the timid voice started and stopped, the words stuck once more._

_The eyes flared. There was a light blazing into the dark. She looked deeper, just for a moment, just to see what would happen, just to know why it had to be a stubborn chick and a reluctant hand and an anxious voice. She looked, for only a second, and found that those eyes weren’t made of fire after all._

_They were just eyes. Human eyes, with pupils darker than pitch and irises brighter than blood. They were disgusted with her, because they had seen into her the moment she had seen into them. They knew what she was hiding._

“How sentimental.” _Everything burned._ “How foolish.”

* * *

The atmosphere was heavy. Reality was very concrete, made of hard edges and sharp lines, and Grace ached under the weight of it. Every breath she took felt like fire taking root in her lungs, and she wished—perhaps for the first time in her life—to be asleep, where such pain could be diminished by dreams.

She stayed very still, and willed herself to go unconscious. But as the seconds ticked by, she strayed further and further away from her wish. She heard shoes tapping against linoleum, smelled fresh dittany and mint, felt the harsh gaze of fluorescent light trailing over her cheek. Reality was pressing down on her once more, demanding her acknowledgement.

“—has been done purely in the hopes of catalyzing a waning.” This voice spoke in long strides, and was very familiar to Grace but she couldn’t quite place it. Her head rang with phantom aches. “But it may be time to consider the alternative.”

“I don’t understand,” another voice said. It was trembling. Grace wanted to reach out and stroke it. “The cases you’ve shown us have all illustrated some sort of waning. Why might it be different for Grace?”

“We haven’t had a modern case—and certainly not one as extensively studied or covered as Grace’s—until now. The cases we’ve shown you all come from the Middle Ages, when this condition was more common, or at least more heard of. But written record was not very well kept back then, and although the handful of documentation we do have suggests a waning process, there are a couple others that suggest quite the opposite.”

The words fell into each other like dominoes set to collapse, and Grace could make neither heads nor tails of it. They were going too fast for Grace to grasp onto any meaning. They spun around her, like a ceaseless cyclone, and grew louder, clearer, more irritating. The calm voice, the frantic one, the shoes tapping against the tiles, the swishing of curtains, the pouring of potions from flasks….

“Stop,” Grace said, and her voice was the weakest it had ever been. She said the word like it was the last one she’d ever utter. “Stop….”

She felt hands—warm and soft—rest against her forehead and cheek, and gasped at the contact. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she wriggled away from the hands. She did not want to be touched. She did not to feel anything, did not want to hear. The whole world was wrapping itself around her, squeezing her until she had no breath left. She wanted to be disconnected from it.

“Grace, what’s wrong?” two or three voices said all at once.

The light was too bright. The colors were too vivid. The people—who were these people?—were too solid. There were three of them, crowded around her. They were so terribly real that Grace was blinded by them. She could not tell who they were.

“S’too much,” she muttered after a moment.

The room went dark in an instant, and Grace relished the sweep of pitch black nothing. The air was cooler now, relaxed, and it eased away from Grace, allowed her room to breathe. The sides of her head pulsed endlessly, and it felt like the steady swing of a row as it batted against choppy waves. It was familiar, this aching. It belonged in her, although she didn’t know why.

Slowly, the world rearranged itself. Meaning was made clear. Sense was only an arm’s length away.

“Mum?” she croaked. “Dad?”

“Right here, darling,” Mum said. Her voice was on the brink of collapse. She did not reach out her hand again, and Grace was grateful for it. “Are you alright? Do you want the lights on?”

“No,” Grace breathed. She closed her eyes. She preferred lying in the dark. It was like she was on the edge of a dream.

“Shall we get some draught?” Dad’s voice was distressed. “Yarrow ought to be good for any pain—”

“No,” Grace said again. She could not imagine drinking anything or chewing thoughtlessly on herbs. The idea of having anything slip into her stomach sickened her. “Tired.”

“But—” Dad started.

“We’ll give it an hour or so,” Healer Kane cut in firmly. “It will take some time for her body to adjust, given how long she’s been out. I doubt she’ll be able to keep down anything we give her anyway.”

“What do we do then?” Mum asked desperately. “There must be something we can do. You can’t honestly expect us—”

“Too loud,” Grace said quietly.

“Sorry, darling, sorry.” Mum’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Is this better?”

Grace hummed her content. Her mother’s voice sounded like a feather brushing against the crown of her head.

“You can’t honestly expect us,” Mum picked up in the softest of voices, “to just sit here and do nothing! Can’t you cast some sort of numbing spell, so she at least won’t be so affected by the environment.”

“Her body needs to adjust. Give her some time. If there is something out of the ordinary, then we can consider numbing spells and analgesic herbs, but—”

“Out of the ordinary?” Dad echoed, and his voice was stricken. “ _This_ isn’t out of the ordinary? She’s been comatose for five days. That’s _never_ happened before. I—I’m sorry, Healer Kane, but if you won’t take this seriously, then we’ll have to consider a new Primary—”

“I assure you, Mr. Potter, I am taking this very seriously,” Healer Kane said severely. “You must understand that pumping Grace with draughts and herbs on a regular basis will have long term effects on her immunological response. She was only _just_ administered a course of Pepper-Up and Calming Draught two weeks ago, during her last episode. Any sensible Healer will tell you the same thing: prolonged use of these potions have adverse effects on the patient.”

For a long moment, no one said anything. Grace could hear her parent’s breaths: Mum’s sounded more like sniffles while Dad’s were coming out quick and furious, like he had just run a marathon.

“It’s just,” Mum began, “she’s in _pain_.”

“No,” Grace said.

“What do you mean, darling?”

“Just wanna rest.”

There was only a slight throb volleying across her temples. Other than that, she just felt _spent_. She felt like all her nerve endings had been lit on fire, and they had only just been put out. She wasn’t in pain anymore. There was just this desperate ache running through the whole of her, like her body was trying to learn how to exist without pain.

“Okay, yes—rest.” Mum said the words like they were a solemn oath. “Yes, please rest.”

“When can we take her home?” Dad asked Healer Kane.

“Let’s have her stay here at least a day, for some monitoring.” Healer Kane paused thoughtfully. “This is, of course, incredibly alarming. We’ll have to run some more tests, try and figure out what could have caused another episode in such a short span of time.”

“Alright,” Dad said. “We’ll take her to the cottage Friday morning, if she’s feeling up to it then.”

Grace grew rigid in her bed. Her throat tightened, and her eyes searched the dark uselessly, settling, after a moment, on the shadowed figure with unkempt hair seated at her side.

“Not the cottage,” Grace protested weakly. “I’ve got Hogwarts and classes….”

“Don’t you worry about that now,” Mum soothed.

Grace knew what those words meant. She knew what that voice—cloying and indulgent—conveyed. If her parents took her back to the cottage, Grace would never find her way back to Hogwarts. She’d be trapped between the hornbeam in the garden and her parent’s watchful gaze.

She couldn’t let that happen.

“No,” Grace started wildly. Panic rooted itself deep in her heart. Her chest felt thick and clouded. “I’ve got to go back to Hogwarts. Mum, Dad— _please_. I’ve got my homework and professors and—and I’ve got my _friends_ —”

“Gracie, we’ll worry about this later,” Dad interrupted gently. His voice was just as tight as hers.

“No!” she said again. “You can’t pull me out of Hogwarts. You _can’t!_ I belong there, Dad.” She belonged there in Slytherin, quietly planning out new ways to get one over her brother. She belonged there in Defense, shooting dirty looks at anyone who scowled at Cresswell. She belonged there in Vablatsky’s Divination class, laughing at the Prewetts’ antics, at Andromeda’s snarky rivalry with Avery, at Ted’s occasional joke. “There’s so much I want to do there. So much I’ve got to see. Hogwarts is _home_ , Dad. You know that. You can’t take me out. You can’t—”

“Grace.” Healer Kane stopped her this time, likely because Grace’s voice had gotten progressively louder and more frantic. “Please don’t exert yourself. Remember your body is still recovering.”

“But—”

“Why don’t you _relax_ ,” she continued pointedly, “and tell us the events leading up to your latest paroxysm? From there, we can try to pinpoint if there was any specific cause, anything that might have triggered the episode, anything that might—” Kane’s silhouette turned sharply to face Grace’s parents, “—warrant pulling Grace out of Hogwarts.”

“Okay,” Grace agreed readily.

If anyone could find a reason to keep her at Hogwarts, it was Healer Kane. But as Grace searched her memory for something that might convince her parents that Hogwarts wasn’t the cause of her most recent episode, she found that she couldn’t quite remember what had happened the night she collapsed. Had it even been night? She remembered a light so bright it seared her flesh. She remembered the press of her foot against the stone floor of the castle. She remembered the flash of pain that seized her whole body—like a knife sawing through her skull, like a star bursting in her head, like a fire spreading through her brain.

“Do you remember what happened?” Kane pressed cautiously. “It was a Friday, Grace.”

First-year schedules changed every day, and Grace did not remember what classes she had had on that particular Friday. She didn’t even remember what she had eaten for breakfast that day, or if she had even had breakfast. If she had, did she eat in the Great Hall or in the kitchens? Was Friday the day she had given James those Howlers?

Grace shut her eyes tight and willed her memory to come back to her, willed herself to dig a little deeper, look a little harder. There must be _something_ she remembered from Friday, but all that came to her was the feel of her heel pressing against the stone, the relentless ache in her head, the spread of white-hot light through her body.

She must have looked rather pained, because Kane said, “If you can’t recall anything at the moment, it’s completely fine. We can revisit this tomorrow morning, when you’re better rested.”

But Grace did not think she would be able to rest with her future at Hogwarts at risk. Silently, furiously, she searched herself. _Friday_ , she thought. _What happened on Friday?_ And as soon as she had the question in her mind, the answer floated to her easily.

“Divination,” Grace realized. “I’ve got Divination every Friday.”

“Divination?” all three adults chorused.

“Are you sure?” Kane asked.

Mum’s brows were furrowed. “But only third-years and above choose advanced subjects like that.”

“I’m not allowed to take Flying, because of the brooms,” Grace explained, feeling only a little bad that she had neglected to tell her parents all of this. It wasn’t her fault, not really. She didn’t have the enthusiasm to write out long letters detailing every aspect of her life like James did. “Dumbledore let me take another subject that takes place in the same time, so I chose Divination.”

“I see,” Kane murmured.

Dad’s eyes flew to Kane. “That can’t be the issue, can it? Divination’s—well—it’s _Divination_ ,” he said incredulously. “The class is a sham. All you do is drink tea and play cards. It’s practically the same as having a couple hours’ worth of free time.”

“Do you remember anything else?” Kane asked.

“I don’t even remember going to Divination,” Grace said. “But I must have. I’ve got it every Friday. I don’t know what we did on that Friday, but recently we started crystal gazing—”

“With crystal balls?” Kane cut in.

Grace frowned. “Yes, but—”

“Well, that explains that, doesn’t it?” She sounded rather put-out, although Grace couldn’t understand why. It was as her father had said—tea leaves and tarot cards couldn’t trigger a paroxysm. Why should a crystal ball?

“I don’t understand,” Mum said, and there was an edge of unease to her voice.

“Crystal balls are powerful reserves of magic,” Kane began. “I don’t entirely understand how they work, if they actually do work, but they are dangerous if tampered with. No one is sure what’s inside a crystal ball—”

“It’s the future,” Grace found herself saying.

Kane stopped for a moment. She peered down at Grace. “Er—perhaps,” she said in a tone that very much conveyed _no, not at all_. She shifted her attention back to Grace’s parents. “Regardless, whatever is inside the crystal ball is volatile. The glass that’s used to encase this magic is enchanted, of course, but it allows small doses of whatever is inside to permeate outwards and interact with the user’s aura. Now, we already have Grace on a strict ban with powerful magical items that could trigger the build-up in her temporal lobes—”

“This must have been what triggered her so quickly,” Mum caught on. “Oh, Grace—why didn’t you tell us?”

“Sorry,” she said without quite meaning it. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“ _Everything_ is important,” Dad said in rather a grave tone.

Grace swallowed thickly. “Well, we’ve figured it out now, haven’t we?” she started. “I won’t touch another crystal ball, I promise. I won’t even step into the same  _room_ as one—”

“Grace,” Mum began, voice soft, “I know you wouldn’t willingly put yourself at risk of an episode, but you must realize that there must be hundreds of powerful objects like crystal balls littered all over Hogwarts. I wouldn’t even know where to start the list. We’re lucky we’ve narrowed in on crystal balls as the source of this particular episode, but suppose there’s something else you’ve interacted with that might have had a hand in this? Suppose we send you back and there’s something  _else_ that triggers a paroxysm?”

The center of Grace’s chest felt very heavy and hot. Her heart hammered against her chest relentlessly. “But the waning…” she said weakly.

Because Healer Kane had said Grace would undergo a waning, didn’t she? Kane had _assured_ Grace that once she got her wand, her magical energy would adjust and channel through it, reducing the risk of buildup beneath her temples.

Kane shared a meaningful look with Grace’s parents. Silence hung over the small group for a moment, and then Dad said, “Why don’t you rest today, Gracie? And we’ll talk in the morning.”

“I _can’t_ rest, not until I know if I can go to Hogwarts or not,” Grace pleaded.

“It’s just—” Mum faltered and glanced at Kane. “It’s just...we don’t want to add to any stress—”

“I need to rethink my earlier diagnosis, actually,” Kane interrupted, “seeing as I now need to factor in the presence of crystal balls. What I’m thinking now is that there isn’t any long term exacerbation that’s happened. This is likely a one-time incident.”

The weight in her chest disappeared in an instant. Grace felt like flying out of her bed and enveloping Kane in a tight hug.

“But if there are other powerful magical items….” Mum trailed off.

“That is something we’ll have to consider,” Kane agreed. “But _if_ the waning process has started, then Grace must get acquainted to such items, albeit at a gradual pace.”

“So everything’s fine,” Grace said quickly, wanting to smooth over this whole discussion as fast as possible. Dimly she caught onto Kane’s use of the word ‘if,’ but decided that was an issue that would be tackled another day. “So I can go to Hogwarts. I _should_ go to Hogwarts. It’s only best.”

Mum’s lips were pressed into one thin, grim line. “We’ll see,” she said after a long moment.

It was better than a flat-out ‘no.’

* * *

It was a bright Friday morning when Grace was transferred from St. Mungo’s to the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. Her return was accompanied with a new list of rules and restrictions. She was barred from attending Divination until they moved onto non-magical items like tarot cards and dream journals. She was to be administered a new herbological concoction—crushed mistletoe—every week by Madam Pomfrey. Her weekly check-ins had also turned into daily check-ins in order to avoid another sudden episode. Oh, and—

“A St. Mungo’s trip every _week_?” Pomfrey read as she tapped her wand against the sprig of dried mistletoe nestled in the mortar. Immediately, the large stone pestle began to grind the herb on its own.

“Yeah,” Grace grumbled, burrowing herself deeper into her cot. Despite the fact she had already spent the past week in a hospital bed, Pomfrey had insisted Grace continue to rest up where the matron could keep an eye on her. “It’ll be Sunday mornings, so I’m not missing class.”

Grace had been in no position to negotiate all these new rules. Mum and Dad were still not completely convinced on the idea of sending Grace back to Hogwarts, but after Kane had outlined this new (very limiting) protocol, they seemed less worried. Truthfully, Grace hadn’t even wanted to contest the restrictions. She had been ready to offer her parents just about anything so long as she could go back to Hogwarts. She was just about ready to have them _live_ in Hogwarts with her. But, thankfully, it hadn’t come to that.

“You’ll have to use the Headmaster’s Floo for that,” Pomfrey said, vanishing Kane’s letter.

Grace soured at this news. Dumbledore had an uncanny way of making her feel immeasurably guilty for lies she hadn’t even _told_ yet. She had hoped she wouldn’t have any more interactions with him this year.

Pomfrey stopped the self-grinding mortar and pestle. With a flick of her wrist, a goblet full of piping hot water appeared in her left hand. Gently, she poured the ground mistletoe into the goblet and gave it a quick stir. There was only a pinch of powder, but it seemed particularly potent, because within a couple of seconds the color of the water had changed a deep amber.

Pomfrey passed the steaming goblet to Grace, who took a cautious sniff. It didn’t smell like anything. In fact, if Grace were blindfolded she might have guessed she had just been handed a cup of plain water.

“Now, you’re to drink up the whole of that,” Pomfrey said. “It’s a bit hot, so I recommend sipping on it. When you’re all done, I’ll get some breakfast for you from the kitchens.”

Grace nodded, and Pomfrey vanished into her quarters. Grace blew on the surface of the goblet, and watched silently as small curls of steam billowed from the cusp. When she felt the mistletoe tea was cool enough, she put her lips against the rim, took a small sip, and nearly gagged.

It was so bitter that Grace’s lips had pursed up just from contact. How in Merlin’s name did Pomfrey expect Grace to stomach this? Especially without at least a _dash_  of honey? Grace stared helplessly at her goblet, very much dreading the idea of taking another sip let alone downing the whole thing. Just as she began to contemplate the repercussions of throwing the contents into a nearby planter, the doors of the Hospital Wing creaked open.

Grace caught sight of an untidy head of jet black hair and lopsided glasses. James’s eyes caught onto her cot immediately, seeing as it as the only one that was occupied, and he padded towards her bedside cautiously. He seemed just a tiny bit worried that Grace might rise from her bed at any moment and pelt him with pillows and blankets like the last time.

“Hey,” he said when he was at the foot of her cot. His eyes roved over her and landed on the goblet clutched loosely in her hands. “Is that Pepper-Up?”

Grace simply stared at him for a moment. She wasn’t sure if they were continuing their feud or if they had put it on hold since she was on bedrest. She caught sight of the dark circles rung about his eyes, the crease between his brows, the sag of his shoulders, and decided that he was likely too tired to be up to anything.

“No,” she said shortly, looking down at her mistletoe tea. Her lips curled in revulsion. “It’s this new thing Kane’s put me on. It tastes like a lemon and a piece of ginger had a baby together.”

James’s lips cracked in a smile. “So really tasty then?” James moved towards Grace’s side and peered down at the drink. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you tried it,” Grace said darkly. Her hands shifted around the goblet. “I don’t want to drink it.”

James perked up. “Bet you ten Galleons you won’t drink it all in one go.”

Grace narrowed her eyes at him. “I bet you fifteen Galleons that you can’t take a sip without flinching.”

“Oh, you’re just going to give me fifteen Galleons for nothing, then?” He took the cup from her. “Must be my lucky day.”

Grace watched carefully as James took a sip. It was a small one, but there was no denying that he had ingested some of the mistletoe concoction. She leaned forward in anticipation of the dry-heave that would follow...but it never came. James’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. When he tore the rim of the goblet away from his lips, Grace saw that he was still smiling.

“Can you deliver the fifteen Galleons to me by Monday?” James asked, handing her back the goblet. “I’ve got my eye on some new joke wands from Gambol and Japes.”

“Hold on,” Grace protested. She gripped the stem of her goblet tightly. “Let’s double your bet. I’ll drink this all in one go for twenty Galleons.”

James shook his head sadly. “Doesn’t seem like a very good idea, Grace. You’ll end up owing me thirty-five Galleons, and you know I always collect.”

She scowled at him before turning to stare down at her drink. With a grave sort of resignation, she raised one of her hands and pinched her nostrils. She took a great lungful of air and then downed the contents of the goblet, scrunching her nose as the tell-tale bitterness enveloped her mouth. The center of her throat seared with warmth.

Within a minute, the goblet was dry, devoid of even a single drop. Grace wiped her sleeve against her mouth messily and smiled smugly. She turned to put the goblet on her bedside table and saw that James was still beaming. His lips were spread into a large grin, and his eyes shone from the sunlight. For someone who had just lost a bet, he seemed awfully happy.

It hit Grace in an instant that this had been one of his stupid little tricks. It had been a while since he’d done something like this. The last time had been around two years ago, when James got his Hogwarts letter. Grace had been testing out some horrid epilepsy potions. She didn’t want to drink the potions on account of their bogey-like aftertaste, but James had made such a big fuss about wanting to try one for himself, about wanting to have his own, that she had begun to think...well, if  _James_ wanted one….

In the end, she had finished the whole trial. She didn’t like it, and they didn’t help. But she had done it. She realized somewhere along the way that James hadn’t  _really_ wanted an epilepsy potion for himself. He had just wanted Grace to drink hers.

Grace looked at her brother again, and this time warmth flooded her heart. This wasn’t the feud put on hold. This was the _end_ of the feud. This was an apology. This was forgiveness. This was the James she knew and loved.

She didn’t want to break the subtle lightheartedness of the moment with her own apology, so she simply asked, “Why’re you here so early? It’s not even breakfast yet.”

James shrugged. “Mum and Dad only send letters in the evening. I can’t wait that long, so I’ve been going to Pomfrey in the mornings for updates.”

“Updates?”

James rolled her eyes. “Updates on _you_ , Grassie.” Grace decided to let this one go. “I wasn’t allowed to just leave Hogwarts to come visit you.”

Grace’s brows rose. “Really? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“I _know_ , right!” James groaned and flopped down on the edge of Grace’s cot. She moved to make room for him. “I just about begged McGonagall, but she said I needed my parent’s permission. So, I wrote Mum and Dad, but they said there wasn’t any use, which it total rubbish, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded.

“I know you were out cold, but I bet I could’ve brought you to.” James grinned again. “Sirius and I developed our own stink pellets. One sniff could raise the dead.”

Grace’s stomach twisted. She dropped her eyes to her lap. “Did you make your own stink pellets to get back at the ones I dropped on the Gryffindor table?”

“Well, yeah, but—” he hesitated for a moment, “—I mean, I’m not going to use them _now_ , of course.”

Grace fidgeted. “Right.” She paused, and played with the loose threads in her blanket for a moment. It was now or never. “Er—I’m sorry.”

James’s eyes snapped to hers. “Really?” His tone was one of utter disbelief, and completely baffled Grace.

“What do you mean ‘really?’” she demanded.

“Because _I’m_ sorry,” James said readily. “I didn’t mean to make you feel lonely during your first couple months at Hogwarts. I suppose I could have sent you a letter. I didn’t realize you might have been getting letters without owls.”

Grace was mildly impressed with his apology. This was about a million steps up from the rushed ‘I’m sorry _you_ felt that what _I_ did was wrong’ that James usually gave. She supposed that one of his friends—likely Remus—had helped him craft this.

“Thanks,” she said. “And I’m sorry for disappearing on you for a month and a half...and then for getting mad when you didn’t find me.” She bit her lip for a moment. “It’s just—I dunno, I thought if you _really_ wanted to see me, you would’ve made an effort.”

He gaped at her. “I _did_ make an effort. I talked to _Slughorn_ , and I didn’t even insult him! I even asked McGonagall, once, after class. I was about to just go to Dumbledore when I finally stumbled upon you in the Hospital Wing.”

“Asking professors doesn’t quite strike me as ‘making an effort.’” She gave him a look. “You could’ve broken into the Slytherin common room. Merlin knows you’ve broken into pretty much everywhere else in Hogwarts.”

“I thought about it,” James admitted after a moment. “And Sirius was willing to help me, too, but then I realized that, well, having your big brother break into your House’s common room and confront you about your disappearance was probably the last thing you wanted. I mean—let’s be honest—I think you would have been furious with me if I showed up in the middle of the Slytherin common room asking for you.”

Grace weighed this in her head. “Er—yeah, you’re right, actually. That probably would have made me more upset.”

A self-satisfied smirk spread across James’s lips. “See! I know what I’m doing.”

“Fine,” Grace conceded. “Well, anyway—I’m sorry for that and for the stuff in the library...and also for the stink pellets.”

“And the Howlers?”

“I’m not apologizing for those. They were hilarious!”

“They were _embarrassing_ ,” James complained. “Evans called me Jam-Jam the next day in Charms.”

“It was only fair,” Grace insisted. “You did nearly set me on fire in the library. You should apologize for that, by the way.”

“I will not!”

“What?” Grace frowned. “Why?”

“Because that wasn’t what I was trying to do at all! I was trying to cast the Pepper-Breath Jinx. Do you honestly think I would try to set you on fire just because you called me a prat?”

“You dropped a million fireworks on the Slytherin table the next day,” Grace pointed out.

“Because _you_ nearly crushed me to death by knocking over those bookshelves.”

“I meant to just hit you with a Knockback!” Grace said. “How was I supposed to know you’d duck?”

“Er—because of course I would?” James said, and there was a grin spreading across his face. “Because I’ve got catlike reflexes and the strength of a dragon?”

Grace rolled her eyes and sunk deeper into her bed. “Yeah, sure you do. And I’m secretly Minister for Magic.”

“No, _really_ ,” James insisted. “I tried out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team first week back, and Breckenridge—she’s our captain—said she’d never seen someone with such great instinct.” He beamed. “I’m the only second-year they took on.”

“Oh,” Grace said, and bit her lip. She was into her third month at Hogwarts, and she hadn’t even known James had made his House’s Quidditch team. “That’s wicked, James. I suppose the new Nimbus really did come in handy.” She smiled. “Congrats.”

“Thanks,” he said, and the word was so genuine and earnest and _bright_ that Grace only then realized just how much she had missed James.

She shifted in her cot. “We’re good now, yeah? We’ll talk again?”

James rose from the end of her bed and ruffled her hair. She batted his hands away.

“‘Course we will,” he said. “You should have breakfast with me at the Gryffindor table.”

“Or you could have breakfast with me at the Slytherin table,” Grace pointed out.

James snorted. “Look, I missed you a ton but not enough to willingly sit in a pit of snakes.”

Grace didn’t even catch the latter part of the sentence. “You really missed me?” she asked, and found herself leaning forward in anticipation of James’s answer.

“Of course I did, you dolt.” James rolled his eyes. “My mates are my mates, but you’re my _sister_. Sure, you’re just about the most annoying person I’ve ever met—” Grace’s eager little smile twisted into a faint scowl, “—but we’ve been through a lot. No one here knows half as much about me as you do.” He cocked his head slightly to the left. “Well, maybe Sirius. But I haven’t yet told him about all the times I tried to give you away when you were a baby.”

Grace wrinkled her nose. She didn’t remember those moments, but during Yuletide parties or family gatherings, her parents would often spin long stories about James’s mischievous toddler days. He’d been so upset about having a sibling that, on multiple occasions, he had tried handing Grace off to visitors. Once, he snuck Grace into a visiting colleague’s briefcase. It wasn’t until a full twenty minutes after the man left that her parents had realized what had happened.

Grace shoved at him lightly. “You know,” Grace sighed, “I was _so_ close to forgiving you, and then you had to dredge all that back up.”

“S’not like you were completely innocent during our childhood. Or did you forget all the times you’d break Mum’s teacups and blame it on me?”

“Did _you_ forget all the times—”

“Oi,” a loud, brash voice called out from beyond the Hospital Wing doors. “Are you two done making up or what?”

Grace nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden noise, but James was nonplussed.

“Yeah,” he called back just as loudly. “You guys can come in.”

One by one, James’s friends filtered into the Hospital Wing. First was Sirius Black, of course, who sauntered in with a crooked grin and bright grey eyes. Behind him was Peter, cautious as usual, and Remus, whose gentle eyes roved over Grace.

“Were you lot just waiting out there?” Grace demanded.

“Well, of course,” Sirius said, plopping down at the foot of Grace’s bed like they were old friends. “So, how’re you doing, Puny Potter?”

She glared at him. “Don’t call me that.”

“But you’re a Potter, and you’re—” Sirius lifted his thumb and pointer finger and squeezed them together, “—puny.”

“And you’re a Black and you’re full of bollocks, so maybe I should call you Bollocks Black?”

Peter snickered at this, and James rolled his eyes.

Sirius, to Grace’s surprise, let out a bark of a laugh. “Ah—good to see you’re back to your old self.” He shifted closer. “So, what exactly happened—”

“Sirius!” both James and Remus said, although Remus’s tone was considerably more irate than James’s.

“Oh, what—I can’t ask questions anymore?” Sirius said.

“Do you not remember the talk we had last weekend?” Remus said lowly.

“Do you not remember James telling you Grace just bumped her head?” Peter added.

“Bumped my head?” Grace cut in. Did James seriously think a bump on the head could explain away nearly a week’s absence from Hogwarts?

James shrugged rather sheepishly.

“Peter,” Sirius sighed. “That was obviously a lie. You know that, right? Please tell me you knew that.”

“Er—” Peter’s pale eyes danced between James and Sirius.

“It wasn’t a _lie_ ,” James insisted. “It was just—er—a _placeholder_.”

“A placeholder?” Remus said, and there was a hint of a smile peeking through his otherwise dour expression. “Were you planning on coming up with a much better lie later?”

“Alright, let’s get back to the topic at hand,” Sirius said, turning to Grace. “Now, we _all_ know you haven’t bumped your head. When I came over for Easter, I remember James saying you were a sickly child—”

“He never said it like _that_ ,” Grace protested.

“—and that was why your parents are so overprotective of you. And—” Sirius gestured at Grace, “—you’re obviously still very weak—”

Grace scowled at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“—and I’m pretty sure, within another month, we’re all going to figure out precisely what’s wrong. So why not just save us the trouble and tell us now: Are you a werewolf?”

James’s brows flew so high up his forehead that they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Peter choked on nothing but thin air, and spent the next several minutes wheezing. Remus went pale as a ghost and seemed to be struggling with something. Grace stared at Sirius for a very long moment, trying to understand how in the world he had been led to the world’s wildest conclusion with absolutely no evidence.

“ _Sirius!_ ” Remus started, aghast. “Blinking hell—what is _wrong_ with you?”

James burst out laughing. “You figure out one student is a werewolf and now you think _every_ student who’s admitted into the Hospital Wing is one?”

“ _James!_ ”

Sirius looked at James, exasperated. “It’s a perfectly reasonable assumption!”

Grace kicked Sirius off her bed. “It really isn’t, you gigantic dunderhead. I was in the Hospital Wing _last week_ , too. Werewolves only turn once a month.” She turned to James. “And what do you mean ‘one student is a werewolf’?”

James opened his mouth, and then immediately closed it. He paused thoughtfully, and then said, “Don’t worry about it.”

Grace scoffed. If James thought she was letting this go, then he had another thing coming. “There’s a werewolf at Hogwarts? Who is it? Are they in my year?”

Sirius patted James on the back. “You really blew the whistle on that one, mate.”

“Just him?” Peter muttered.

“You _both_ did,” Remus hissed.

Grace’s eyes flitted on each of the boys around her before landing on Remus. The bandaged scars she had seen on his arms when she was last in the Hospital Wing flashed unwillingly in her mind. Her eyes flickered over the small, fading cuts that decorated the side of his face.

 _We’re both lying, aren’t we?_ Remus had said that night.

Grace’s eyes grew as wide as Galleons. “Merlin’s pants!” she exclaimed. “Remus— _you’re_ a werewolf?”

“I’m going to _murder_ both of you after this. And don’t say I can’t get away with it, because you two know I can,” Remus told James and Sirius. “I swore you to secrecy just last week, and you’ve already gone and blown it!”

“In my defense, I thought she was one, too!” Sirius said. “I thought you two could bond over it.”

“I think you might have jumped the gun,” Peter piped in timidly. “If Grace had turned this past week, then wouldn’t have Remus?”

“Huh,” Sirius said thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ve got a point there, Peter.”

“How on earth could you think Grace being a werewolf was the most logical conclusion?” Remus demanded. “She doesn’t have any fresh scratches, no old scars—”

“These are all wonderful points, Moony—”

Grace laughed at the nickname. “ _Moony_? Merlin, it’s a miracle they didn’t tell anyone before me, Remus.”

Remus let out a defeated sigh. “This is a disaster.”

As Remus’s shoulders slumped and his lips twisted into a distressed pout, the keen look in Grace’s eyes faded. She was suddenly overcome with a flood of guilt. If someone had found out about her own condition without her wanting to, she would have been absolutely livid. She would have likely threatened them into secrecy. She would have stormed out the room and cried in her dorm later.

She would be hurt and upset and in desperate need of comfort.

“It’s okay,” Grace told Remus, and hoped she sounded as tender as she meant to. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, Remus.”

Remus looked at her carefully, and Grace wished she could transmit her thoughts into his head directly. _I wouldn’t reveal another person’s condition for anything_ , she wanted to tell him. _I know how you feel. You’re not alone._

“You’re not...horrified?” Remus asked quietly.

Before Grace could even open her mouth, James spoke: “This again? Remus—come on—you’ve nothing to be ashamed about. You’re one of the best wizards I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Just because you’ve got a furry little problem—” Sirius wheezed with laughter, “—doesn’t mean you ought to be barred from all human interaction.”

“You’re a good person, Remus,” Peter added kindly. “It doesn’t matter what sort of animal you might turn into once a month.”

“Yeah,” Grace agreed. Remus was the kindest soul she had met thus far. She’d never forget that night in the Hospital Wing for as long as she lived—two voices in the dark finding comfort for the briefest of moments. “Your condition doesn’t define you, Remus. What I’ve got isn’t nearly as bad, but—”

“To be honest, Grace, what you’ve got is downright terrifying,” James cut in, frowning. “Maybe it’s because you’re unconscious half the time, so you don’t realize what’s going on, but it’s—”

“Would _one_ of you tell me what it is?” Sirius cried out. “I’ve told you one of my secrets, so now—”

“One of _your_ secrets?” Remus said incredulously.

“Yeah, that one of my best mates is a werewolf—” Remus charmed Sirius’s tongue to stick to the roof of his mouth, and Sirius nearly choked as he swallowed his words.

Sirius shot Remus a dirty look and proceeded to try to unstick his tongue by pulling at it with his fingers.

Grace’s eyes flickered towards Sirius, and irritation pierced through her sharply. Did he just devote all his time to speaking and none towards _thinking_? How could he think that Grace was a werewolf just because Remus was one? Was he really that dumb?

“Is that a new charm, Moony?” James said, brows raised in interest. He regarded Sirius closely. “It’s very nice.”

“Thank you,” Remus sniffed.

“Will you write it down for me later?” James continued. “I ought to try this on Snivellus.”

Sirius pulled his fingers away from his mouth, and shook his head at James.

“What? Not Snivellus?”

Sirius shook his head again, and then did a poor impression of what seemed to be an old man falling down some stairs. Apparently, this made sense to James, because he brightened.

“Right, of course! We’ll do it on Sanderson during class. That’ll get the old coot to stop rambling.”

Sirius nodded enthusiastically at this, and Grace considered the grey-eyed boy once more. He couldn’t really be that daft, right? He was cleverer than whatever foolish facade he put on. Grace was almost sure of this. She had seen Sirius’s brilliance during Easter, when the older boy had goaded her into using James’s broomstick. And he definitely hadn’t grown dense over the past year, not if he was James’s partner in crime, not if he had been keeping as many secrets as he had from bookish, observant Regulus.

Grace’s eyes trailed back to Remus. He had been so upset when Sirius had revealed his secret that, for the briefest of moments, Grace felt compelled to tell him all about her own condition, if only to get the attention off of him, if only to make him feel less lonely, if only to have them both back on equal footing. Perhaps that had been Sirius’s plan the whole time, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Aha!” Sirius said, successfully peeling his tongue away from the roof of his mouth. He wiped the saliva on the front of his robes, much to Peter’s disgust. “Great charm, Moony. Wish you hadn’t tested it on me...but if not me, then who?”

“Then who?” Remus agreed softly.

“Anyway—” Sirius’s eyes returned to Grace, “—you were talking about your condition?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Grace said resolutely. “It’s nothing serious, and it’s nothing you need to know.”

If Sirius was upset by her refusal, he certainly didn’t show it. He simply shrugged and said, “It was worth a try.” He rose and brushed back his hair with his hand. “I actually came to talk to you about something else entirely.”

Grace’s eyes flickered towards James for a moment, but he seemed just as confused as her. Her gaze returned to Sirius. “Me?”

“Yeah. It’s about Regulus.”

Grace’s brows furrowed. The last time she saw Regulus, she was about to keel over in the Great Hall. Practically a whole week had passed since then, and she had no idea how he’d been holding up, especially with the other Slytherins.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius waved off. “Little bugger’s got his nose buried in a new book. He’s perfectly happy.”

She relaxed. “Then what is it?”

Sirius sighed heavily. With the solemnity of someone attending a funeral, he said, “I don’t know how to say this, but...Regulus is going to ask you over for Christmas holiday.”

“Oh, it’s _this_ ,” James said, lounging behind Sirius.

“Wait, what?” Grace started, glancing at James. “Why’re you all serious all of a sudden? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” James assured.

At the exact same time, Sirius said, “I’m always Sirius—”

“Just for that joke, I’m leaving,” Remus interrupted flatly. “Come on, Peter. Let’s get breakfast.”

Grace saw the two leave from the corner of her eye but she barely registered it. “So what if Regulus is going to ask me over? Is that...bad?”

“No, not at all,” Sirius said lightly, but his posture—tense and upright—screamed otherwise. “It’s just that, when he asks, you need to say no.”

“Why?”

“You can still come over,” Sirius continued. “It’ll be at my uncle’s house. But you’ve got to tell Regulus you can’t come.”

“But _why_?” Grace asked again, and this time her voice was harder. She pursed her lips and looked to James, who didn’t seem at all affected by any of this. “Won’t Regulus be upset?”

“Yeah, but he’ll get over it. Besides,” Sirius said with heavy exasperation, “you can still come over. You just can’t let him know.”

“If I can still come over, why can’t I just tell him yes?”

Grace was beginning to suspect Sirius was trying to keep another secret from Regulus. She had seen how heartbroken Regulus was when she mentioned Sirius had secretly come to the Potter cottage for Easter. She didn’t want to lie to him. She didn’t want to keep a secret from Regulus without at least understanding _why_.

“Just trust me,” was all the explanation Sirius gave.

* * *

During lunch, Pomfrey checked the level of magical strain within Grace’s temporal lobes. Apparently, the matron wasn’t pleased with what she saw because she refused to discharge Grace, instead magicking a platter of grilled cheese sandwiches and disappearing into her own quarters.

Glumly, Grace sat in her cot, knees pulled up to her chest, chewing mindlessly on sandwich after sandwich. Within twenty minutes, she had finished the whole platter, but her stomach still didn’t feel full. She was just about to call for Pomfrey and ask for more food to be magicked into existence—perhaps some sort of parfait—when the platter refilled itself.

Grace stared at the platter in shock. Gingerly, she peeled another sandwich from the top of the pile and chewed curiously. It tasted no different from the others.

“Wicked,” Grace breathed, staring at the platter. Imagine she had something like this stocked up in her room! She wouldn’t have to roll out of her bed to get breakfast on weekends. She could just eat from the comfort of her room.

As Grace began to consider the logistics of smuggling Pomfrey’s magic platter out of the Hospital Wing, the doors creaked open and a new visitor walked in. Grace’s head rose sharply and she beamed as she saw one Regulus Black dash towards her cot.

“Finally!” he cried out, and pulled a chair from another cot towards her bedside. “I was beginning to think you were never coming back.”

“No force on earth could keep me away from Hogwarts,” Grace said honestly.

“Are you alright?” His grey eyes roved over Grace carefully. “Are you better? Do you know what happened? I was reading about stomach illnesses, and did you know raw beef can—”

“I can guarantee you that I probably don’t know whatever fact it is you’re about to spit out.” Grace swallowed down her bite of grilled cheese. “I’m feeling much better now.”

Regulus smiled in relief. “What happened?” he repeated. “I asked Andromeda afterwards, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. She just said you needed rest.”

An overwhelming amount of gratitude for Andromeda washed over Grace. “Er—I don’t really know what happened,” Grace said, and it was partly true. The whole affair had been something of a blur. Not to mention, she’d been unconscious for the most of it.

Regulus frowned. “But you went to St. Mungo’s, right? Surely the Healers figured it out?”

They sort of did, but not entirely. Crystal balls were certainly to blame for the last episode, but Kane and her parents were still not sure why that particular paroxysm had been so intense.

“Not really,” Grace said, biting her lip. She busied herself by chewing on her sandwich. “They’re a bit confused. I’ve got to go back next Friday for a check-up.”

“ _They’re_ confused?” Regulus said, eyes wide. “That’s not very good, is it?”

“I’m fine,” Grace assured. She shrugged half-heartedly. “It’s probably a one-time thing.”

“I’ll do some more research,” Regulus offered immediately. “The library has got an enormous section about Healing.”

“Er—that’s not really necessary—”

“I’ve already checked out a dozen books,” he beamed.

“Of course you have,” Grace sighed. “Anyway, what’s happened at Hogwarts this past week? Anything interesting?” She groaned suddenly. “Did Sanderson assign a new project?”

Regulus grimaced. “He did, actually, but it was due yesterday.” His eyes flew down towards the floor. “He paired your partner up with Yaxley’s group since you were gone.”

Grace’s brows rose. Cresswell with _Yaxley_? That was just asking for trouble. “How did it go?” she asked, very much dreading the answer.

“Not that great,” Regulus admitted. “During the demonstration, something went wrong, and Cresswell started puking. Yaxley swears he just cast the jinx wrong.”

“A likely story,” Grace muttered. “Well, I’ll be back on Monday. I’ll put an end to this nonsense once and for all.”

Regulus glanced at her worriedly. “Please don’t destroy the Defense classroom.”

She rolled her eyes. “I won’t destroy the classroom, Regulus. I’ll just—I dunno—teach Yaxley a lesson or something.”

He considered this. “Alright, but don’t drag me into it. I have to share a dorm with him.”

“So you’re telling me I _shouldn’t_ ask you to replace all his robes with Gryffindor ones?” Grace asked.

“Definitely not! He’d kill me if I went through his things!”

“Okay, okay—calm your knickers,” she laughed. “Has anything else happened?”

“Not really. You do have a lot of material to catch up on, though.”

Grace’s shoulders sagged.

“But don’t worry,” he said immediately. “We’ve got the whole weekend. We can get through most of it.”

“You’re a saint, Regulus,” Grace said thankfully.

He beamed. “By the way, I’ve got to ask you something.”

She perked up. Sirius’s warning flashed in her head like a siren: _Regulus is going to ask you over for Christmas holiday…. You need to say no._

Again, she wondered _why_. What was the reason behind refusing Regulus? Sirius had said she could still come over; she just couldn’t let Regulus know. It could have been that Sirius wanted to surprise Regulus, but having Regulus’s closest friend lie to him didn’t sound like a particularly good surprise. In fact, it sounded sort of underhanded and dishonest.

“What is it?” Grace asked.

“I’ve been thinking recently,” Regulus began anxiously.

Grace snorted. “You’re always thinking, Regulus.”

“That’s true, but usually about Hogwarts and classes and new books.” He fidgeted in his seat. “This time I was thinking about how Christmas holiday is coming up. Sirius and I are visiting my Uncle Alphard for a day, and I was just wondering...well, if you’ve got nothing to do, then—”

Grace couldn’t help the grin that was slowly overtaking her face. _Sod Sirius Black_ , she thought instantly. “I’d love to visit you during holiday, Regulus!”

Relief washed over Regulus. “Really?” he said, eyes bright.

“Of course I would!”

“Brilliant,” he breathed. “Uncle Alphard’s great but he doesn’t pay very much attention, so we can do whatever we want. He’s got scores of magical items he picked up during travels in the attic, and we can look at them all. _Oh_ —and he’s got tons of _good_ books, too—”

“Regulus, we are _not_ reading during holiday,” Grace said immediately.

“They’ve got pictures in them,” he added.

She considered this. “Okay, fine. _Maybe_ we’ll read.”

He smiled once more, and Grace found herself returning it easily. She decided very quickly that she had done the right thing by ignoring Sirius’s advice. Regulus would have been absolutely crushed if Grace had said no, especially if she didn’t even have a good reason for it.

“Shouldn’t you be heading back to class soon?” Grace asked. “Lunch is almost over.”

Regulus’s eyes flew to the grandfather clock tucked into the corner of the room. He sighed heavily, and began to pick up his knapsack. “You’re right. Do you want me to stop by after dinner?”

“If you want.” Grace’s eyes flickered to the silver platter full of sandwiches. “Could you do me a favor, though?”

“What?”

“Could you take this platter with you?” Grace lifted it off her bedside table. “Pomfrey gave it to me for lunch, and it produces infinite sandwiches—”

“You want me to _steal_ that?” Regulus started, scandalized. “But that’s school property!”

“It’ll still be _in_ the school,” Grace insisted.

“Grace!”

“Oh, _fine_. I’ll convince you after dinner, then.”

* * *

To Grace’s dismay, Pomfrey had collected the never-ending platter of grilled cheese sandwiches sometime between lunch and dinner. Without a magical platter to play around with, Grace quickly grew bored. She tried getting a leg up on the copious amount of homework that awaited her by practicing the Mending Charm, but, somehow, she managed to _explode_ two pillows instead of, well, mend them.

Thankfully, Pomfrey didn’t take any points from Slytherin, but she did confiscate Grace’s wand. So, now, Grace was spending her time waiting for Regulus to finish with classes. She had half a mind to barge into Pomfrey’s private room and demand the platter back.

As she weighed the pros and cons of this plan in her hospital bed, a jubilant voice cried out, “Grace!”

Grace twisted in her bed, straightening up as caught sight of a few familiar seventh-years streaming into the Hospital Wing. “Hello, Andromeda, Ted, Gideon...Fabian...— _Avery_?” She stared at Avery’s disgruntled expression, and then her eyes dropped down to the neatly wrapped box he held in his hands. “Er—” she lifted her eyes from the present and looked to Andromeda, “—what’re you all doing here?”

“We were wondering what happened to our resident firstie,” Fabian said easily.

“Andromeda said you might be in the Hospital Wing,” Gideon continued.

“How are you feeling?” Andromeda asked. Her dark eyes searched Grace’s face, and Grace found herself looking away on instinct.

She wasn’t sure what exactly had happened last week, but it likely involved some screaming and a bout of fits. She knew Andromeda wouldn’t judge her for something she couldn’t control, but she couldn’t help but wonder if the older girl was put-off by her now.

“I’m alright,” Grace said.

“That’s good to hear!” Ted said brightly. He hefted two deluxe boxes of Honeydukes sweets and laid them on Grace’s bedside. “Meant to drop this off earlier, but we hadn’t the chance.”

Grace gaped at the large boxes of chocolate. “You got that for me?”

“‘Course we did,” Ted smiled. “A bit of sugar’s precisely what you need when you’re on the mend.”

“That sounds entirely inaccurate,” Avery sniffed.

“Come off it, Avery,” Andromeda said. She pointed at the present he was holding. “As if _that_ box doesn’t hold chocolates straight from Paris.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ll have you know they’re from _Madrid_.” He turned towards Grace, and raised his box of chocolates. “Don’t take this to mean I’m fond of you or anything like that,” he said lightly.

Grace couldn’t stop the grin that was burgeoning across her lips. “You _are_ , aren’t you? Was it my charm that won you over? Was it the Howlers?”

Avery’s lips twitched upward. “You’re deluded if you think you possess even an iota of charm, Potter.”

“I’m fond of you, too, Avery,” she said cheekily.

He rolled his eyes, and tossed the expensive chocolate onto her bedside table. “Don’t eat it all in one go. You'll get sick.”

Fabian scoffed. “Are you quite done, _Mum_?” he said, shoving Avery out of the way.

Avery scowled at him, but before he could insult the red-haired twin, Gideon produced a brightly-colored yo-yo from behind his back. Grinning, he offered it to Grace. “Instead of some boring sweets, I’m giving you this fantastic, limited-edition yo-yo device. I had to pay a hundred Galleons for this, you know—”

Grace stared at the yo-yo warily. “That’s the one that screams at you when you use it.”

Gideon’s grin faltered. “Er—”

Fabian stepped in front of his twin and revealed a different present. He pulled a bright green boomerang from the depths of his cloak. “Yo-yo not your style, Potter? No worries, I’ve got a back-up gift—”

“That’s the boomerang that hits the thrower in the face.” Grace frowned. “Do you usually give people gifts that are meant to annoy them?”

Gideon set his yo-yo on Grace’s bedside. “Ah, you’ve got us. That was all a—erm—test, of course.”

“Of course,” Fabian nodded along. “You’re a canny one, firstie. I’ll give you that.”

Grace scrutinized them. “So...you’ve got something else for me?”

Gideon and Fabian glanced at each other hesitantly.

“Er, sure,” Gideon started.

Fabian began rummaging in his pockets. He pulled out one smushed cauldron cake. “Would you like this?”

“Actually,” Grace began, easing up on her cot, “since I’ve seen through your wiles—” Avery snorted at this, “—how about you answer a question for me instead?”

“Sounds easy enough,” Gideon said. “What is it you want to know?”

Grace smiled slyly. “What’s the Gryffindor password?”

Fabian gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “This again? Haven’t you made-up with your brother yet?”

She had actually, but she still needed to prank James back for changing her hair green. She had already begun planning out the rough details of her revenge prank before she’d been hospitalized. She didn’t see any need in letting her scheme go to waste.

“Yeah, but—” Grace started, only to be cut off by a horrible screech.

Everyone clamped their hands over their ears and looked to Ted, who was sheepishly holding onto the yo-yo Gideon had set down.

“Sorry,” he said hastily. “I just wanted to see how—”

“What in Merlin’s name is going on?” Pomfrey cried out, emerging from the back of the Hospital Wing. Her eyes flew over the cluster of seventh-years.

Gideon quickly grabbed the strung-out yo-yo and silenced it. “Just a misunderstanding, Poppy. Won’t happen again.”

Pomfrey’s eyes zeroed in on the yo-yo. “What is that?”

“Just a get-well present for Grace,” Fabian said.

“More like a ‘get-worse’ present,” Avery muttered.

“As you well know,” Pomfrey said, drawing herself up, “there are only three visitors allowed in the Hospital Wing at a time. I would think a group of seventh-years, two of whom are _Prefects_ —” her gaze traced over Andromeda and Avery, “—would know this.”

“Sorry, Madam Pomfrey,” Ted said. “We only meant to stop by for a quick visit. We’ll be on our way.”

Andromeda and Ted waved at Grace and headed out. Avery followed suit. Gideon turned to put back the yo-yo, and Pomfrey’s eyes followed him sharply. As soon as the Prewett twins were gone, the matron grabbed the yo-yo.

“I’ll have to examine this,” Pomfrey said.

“What?” Grace said, brows furrowing. “Why? It’s just a joke yo-yo. James has got a hundred like them.”

“It’s a potentially powerful magical object. It could trigger another episode for you, and I’ve been told not to take any chances.” Pomfrey’s expression softened when she caught Grace’s cross look. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s perfectly fine. You’ll get it back soon, likely by tomorrow morning, and you can play with it then.”

With that, Pomfrey returned to her back room. Grace’s eyes followed her. It wasn’t that Grace actually _wanted_ the yo-yo. Who would actually want a yo-yo that did nothing but scream at you? No, it wasn’t that Pomfrey took the yo-yo. It was that Pomfrey had to _examine_ it.

A horrible weight settled in Grace’s chest. She had been fine with all these new restrictions in theory, but seeing them enforced was entirely different. Was this really how it was going to be from now on? Every item she got would be checked and screened? Would she ever be allowed to get her hands on something unknown? Would she ever be able to _explore_?

She shifted in her bed grumpily and grabbed the first thing off her bedside—Avery’s box of chocolates. Hastily, she ripped off the packaging, only stopping when she noticed a note tucked underneath the wrapping. She stilled, and eased out the piece of paper, opening it up. Her eyes scanned over Avery’s elegant, loopy handwriting: _The Gryffindor password for the next two weeks is ‘ragamuffin.’_

Her grimace gave way to a light smile.


	12. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace is released from the Hospital Wing, tries to clean up some Stinksap, and antagonizes a Prefect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sort a filler chapter and a bit on the leaner side. I meant to also have a whole sequence of events with Cresswell, but it was getting absurdly long so I decided to just cut it into two chapters. 
> 
> I hope you're still enjoying the story! Please let me know what you think :)

Grace sprinted into the Great Hall, eager to find Regulus and finish planning out her final prank. She shouldered her knapsack and set forth towards the Slytherin table on the far right. James caught sight of her from across the hall, and let out one great whoop in greeting.

“Grassie!” he shouted like a madman, leaping atop the table bench with a blinding smile. Besides him, Sirius rolled his eyes. “Come sit!”

Grace bit the inside of her cheek and tried her very hardest to ignore the stares coming her way. She was already too far along her path towards the Slytherins to change course now; not to mention, she had told Regulus she would sit with him at breakfast. She needed to go over her new plan with him. Although she had the Gryffindor password now, she still needed to figure out exactly how she was supposed to sneak into there. Regulus, with his knack for spellwork and belief in not attracting attention, would be perfect for that.

“Bugger off!” Grace called back, and grinned when James waved her off lightheartedly.

She sped towards her own table, and slid into an empty spot besides Regulus, dropping her bag down behind her and immediately shoveled an entire platter of bacon onto her plate.

“Hullo,” she told Regulus, shoving the food into her mouth.

He wrinkled his nose at her. “We’ve got at least an hour before classes start, you know.”

“I know,” Grace said, swallowing down her food, “but we’ve got to go to the library.”

Regulus’s brows flew up, and he smiled. “The library? Do you want to read up on the Mending Charm? Or— _oh_ —it’s for Defense, isn’t it? Did you talk to Sanderson about making up your project?”

“Er, actually—”

“ _Potter_ , you’re back, are you?” Myrcella Rosier sneered over her goblet. “We half-thought you’d been kicked out of Hogwarts.”

Grace pursed her lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rosier. I was just sick.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” she continued, snickering along with Yang, “we heard about that. Are you sure you should be eating all that? Given your _weak_ constitution and all?”

“Are you sure you should be talking at all, Rosier?” Grace growled back. “I know it sucks up a lot of brain power for you. You ought to save some for class.”

“It looks like you’re back to your old self—just as rude as before,” Myrcella sniffed, turning around and returning to her conversation with Yang before Grace could retort.

“Sorry about that,” Regulus said sheepishly once Grace’s gaze returned to him.She frowned at him. What did Regulus have to apologize for? “I sort of told everyone you’d gotten food poisoning—”

“ _Food poisoning_?” Grace repeated, appalled. She had never heard something so preposterous in her life. She had a stomach made of iron. She had to, growing up with James and his dares. She’d once eaten a crumble pastry filled with jelly and sheep liver and hadn’t even _sniffled_. “You told them I got _food poisoning_?”

“Yes, I just said that—”

Grace let out a large sigh of exasperation. “You couldn’t have told a cooler lie, Regulus?”

“First of all,” he began primly, “that wasn’t a lie. I thought you _did_ have food poisoning. You said it was your stomach that was bothering you before Andromeda took you to the Hospital Wing. Second of all, what sort of ‘cool’ lie could explain you being stuck in St. Mungo’s for nearly a week?”

“You could have said I’d been mauled by a dragon whilst heroically rescuing a small child.”

He gaped at her. “What? At Hogwarts?”

“Or, you could have said I braved the Forbidden Forest and stumbled upon a horde of Erumpents!”

“Erumpents aren’t native to Europe, Grace.”

“So what? S’not like anyone would’ve fact-checked it,” Grace said, grabbing a couple pieces of toast. “Besides, it _wasn’t_ food poisoning. It was…something else.” She turned away from Regulus and began to busy herself by clumsily creating a bacon-and-egg sandwich. “Hopefully my Healer will figure it out soon,” she added lamely.

Regulus brightened. “That’s another reason we can go to the library! While you catch up on classes, I can keep doing research about what might have happened to you.” He began pulling a piece of parchment from his bag. “What were your symptoms? I know your stomach hurt, but _how_ did it hurt—was it a sort of stabbing pain, or—”

“We’re not going to the library for classes or medical research,” Grace interrupted.

Regulus’s shoulders went slack. His brows furrowed. “Then what—” his eyes widened and the parchment fell from his hand, “—no, _Grace_ , tell me it’s not research for a prank—”

“It’s research for a prank,” she said with not even a bit of shame in her voice.

“Who’s ticked you off this time?” Regulus sighed, turning back to his bowl of tomato soup.

“It’s for James.”

“I thought you made up with him?”

“Yes, but since I’ve got a hold of—” Grace turned and rummaged through her bag, pulling out the scrap of paper Avery had given her, “— _this_ , I figured I might as well go through with a prank. It’s too good an opportunity.”

Regulus eyed the folded piece of parchment suspiciously. “What is it?”

Grace handed it to him, but he inched backwards. She rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing dangerous. It’s just a note.”

“Alright,” Regulus said after a moment, gingerly grabbing it between his thumb and forefinger. With the frantic care and cautiousness of someone dismantling a bomb, he peeled open the note. His grey eyes fled over the writing. Gradually, the anxiety gave way to wonder. “How’d you manage to convince someone to give you the password?”

Grace shrugged. “I didn’t really do any convincing. Avery just gave it to me when I was in the Hospital Wing. I reckon he felt bad.”

“Avery? Wait—you mean that Prefect who helped us with the Howlers?” Regulus stared at Grace. “But he’s a _Prefect_.”

“Yeah, so he probably knows all the passwords that are used at Hogwarts.”

“No, I mean he can’t be allowed to give out passwords to random students,” Regulus said incredulously. “What sort of Prefect is he?”

“The sort I want to be,” Grace said readily.

Regulus shook his head. “The day you become a Prefect is the day I turn into a unicorn.”

Grace grinned. “Hope you’ll enjoy your new life as a unicorn then, Regulus.” She plucked the scrap of paper back. “Anyway, now that we’ve got the password, we’ve just got to figure out how we’re going to sneak in. We can’t with these robes, obviously.” She pointed at his Slytherin crest. “So, we’ll have to—”

“Hold on, so _I’m_ going to break into the Gryffindor common room, too?” He seemed faintly terrified by the prospect.

“Yes, but don’t worry—”

“Grace, I’m always worried,” he said honestly.

“—I’ll be right there, too. It’ll be fine. Maybe. If we can transfigure our Slytherin robes into Gryffindor ones, we can get in and out easily. No one will suspect a thing.”

“Transfigure our robes? But that’s got to be a second-year spell at least. How’re you going to manage that?”

“Well—I was sort of hoping you could do it?”

Regulus stared at her, unimpressed. “This is why you wanted to head to the library, isn’t it?”

“Er—yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be much easier to just get Gryffindor robes from the house-elves? They do the laundry, don’t they? We could borrow a couple and bring them back in an hour or so. No one would notice.”

“I thought about it,” Grace granted. “But Pokey’s bound to Dumbledore. If he asks her about the prank, she’d _have_ to tell him it was us. Not to mention…I don’t want to drag her into this.”

“But you’ve no qualms about dragging me into this?”

“You don’t _have_ to do it, Regulus,” Grace said, “but it’d be nice if you did. It’ll be fun.” She raised a brow. “What do you say?”

Regulus took a large breath. “I—” he glanced at the paper in Grace’s hands, “— _fine_ , I’ll help. If only because I’m curious as to what the inside of the Gryffindor common room looks like.”

Grace beamed at him. “Great! With your brains and my—er, what is it I’ve got, exactly?”

“Different brains?” Regulus slurped his soup thoughtfully. “You’ve got creative brains.”

“Right. With your book brains and my creative brains, we’ll be in and out of there before anyone suspects a thing.” Grace smiled and nudged Regulus’s shoulder with her own. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

“Well,” he began, returning her smile with his own, “we haven’t been caught yet, have we?”

* * *

 

Grace was sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth in the Slytherin common room, eyeing Cliodna, Regulus’s kneazle-cat, worriedly. With all the excitement of a new prank, she had nearly forgotten about Healer Kane’s warning against prolonged exposure to powerful magical objects and animals. Normally, Grace wouldn’t have a problem with Cliodna. In fact, she had spent many nights in the same position absentmindedly petting the black cat while Regulus busily pored over homework.

But things were different now. She’d never admit it out loud, but her latest St. Mungo’s stay _scared_ her. Kane and her parents had been right: this wasn’t normal. It was likely the crystal balls that had been responsible for her drawn out paroxysm, but she couldn’t be absolutely certain.

Grace inched away from the creeping cat, bumping up against the edge of the loveseat. It was better to be safe than sorry. She didn’t want to miss anymore of what Hogwarts had to offer.

“Hold on—” Regulus said, barely glancing up from one of the five different books about clothing charms he had checked out during breakfast, “—I think I’ve just been doing the hand motion wrong. It should be more like....”

His acacia wand swiped through the air in a zig-zag motion. Regulus muttered the spell under his breath, and from the tip of his wand, a jet of light orange light shot out and brushed against the hem of Grace’s robes.

Nothing happened.

Grace sighed, leaning against the loveseat and looking up at Regulus with heavy boredom. “Maybe we should just do your idea, with the laundry.”

Regulus squinted at the crest on Grace’s robes. “It looks a bit lighter.”

“It looks the exact same,” Grace said flatly.

“Fine,” Regulus said, dropping his wand onto the couch. “Let’s go to the kitchens, then.” He glanced at the grandfather clock near the back of the common room. “Do you think we’ll have time, though? Won’t the house-elves be busy preparing dinner?”

“Well, it’s got to be tonight or we’ll have to put it off for another day,” Grace said. She rose and dusted off her robes. “C’mon, let’s at least try.”

Grace and Regulus had decided during lunch that the best time to sneak into the James’s dormitory would be during dinner, when everyone in his dormitory would be eating. They had planned to come back to their own common room after classes, disguise themselves very quickly, and stake out the Gryffindor common room until they saw James and his friends left.

Of course, they couldn’t even _disguise_ themselves, so their plans had gotten a bit waylaid.

Regulus followed Grace to the kitchens dutifully, now and again grumbling about how sending James a strongly-worded letter would have been easier. Grace listened to him in the beginning, or at least tried to, but found her thoughts drifting to the Gryffindor tower. If all went according to plan, she and Regulus would be stepping into the lion’s den very shortly, and she was half-excited and half-nervous for it.

She had never seen the Gryffindor common room before. There was a time when she thought she would. There was a time when the Gryffindor tower was supposed to Grace’s second home, was expected to be her home away from home.

Grace was happy with her own Slytherin dormitory. She had been waking and living and sleeping in it for the past three months now. She had gotten used to it. She might have even liked it, and she was afraid that, upon setting foot into the Gryffindor common room, she would not be happy with Slytherin dungeons anymore. She would yearn, once more, for what James had, and she dreaded the start of that cycle. Trailing after James was _tiring_.

But Grace did not want to back out of the prank. Her desire to see the common room was greater than her fear of walking away jealous. She had to see what it was she was missing out on. So, when she reached the still-life portrait that concealed the kitchens, she reached forward and tickled the pear without even a moment’s hesitation.

The portrait swung upon, and Grace was met with the sight of one hundred house-elves bustling about. There was a heavenly aroma of roasted potatoes wafting through the air. Twenty different timers were going off all at once, and it was a miracle that the house-elves knew which ones referred to what.

Grace waded through the crowd until she reached Pokey, who was swiftly whisking some sort of batter.

“Hello, Pokey!” Grace greeted.

Pokey’s dark purple ears perked up. “Miss Grace!” she squeaked, stopping her whisking. Pokey’s large eyes flitted over Grace frantically. “Is Miss Grace okay? Mister Regulus told Pokey that Miss Grace was very ill.” Pokey’s lower lip trembled. “Was it Pokey’s food that made Miss Grace sick?”

Grace shot Regulus an exasperated glance. He shrugged sheepishly.

“No, no,” Grace soothed, turning back to Pokey. “It wasn’t anything food-related. I was just—er—not feeling well.”

“But Miss Grace is better now?”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded. “Loads better. Fit as a Flitterbloom.”

Pokey relaxed. “Would Miss Grace and Mister Regulus like dinner?” She snapped her fingers, and a tin of apple pie appeared from thin air.

Grace eyed the tin greedily. “Well, I suppose we have a couple of minutes—”

“Actually, Pokey,” Regulus said, jutting forward, “we were wondering if we could borrow some Gryffindor robes from the laundry? It’s just for a couple of hours. We’ll be stopping by for dinner later in the evening, and we’ll return them then. I promise.”

“Gryffindor robes?” Pokey repeated. She snapped her fingers once more, and the pie disappeared, much to Grace’s dismay. In its place were two first-year Gryffindor robes, perfectly fitted for Regulus and Grace. “Pokey can give you robes. But Pokey is wondering what for?”

“We just wanted to sneak—ack!” Regulus’s hand slapped over Grace’s mouth, cutting her off.

He smiled nervously at Pokey. “We’re—er—putting on a play! That’s right, a play. In the Slytherin dungeons. And we need these robes for costumes.”

Pokey smiled brightly. “Students is always being so creative!”

“Yes, they are,” Grace muttered, batting Regulus’s hand away and rolling her eyes at him. She grabbed onto the pair of robes. “Thanks for these, Pokey. We’ll see you later tonight.”

Pokey nodded enthusiastically. “Okay, Miss Grace!”

Regulus and Grace traded goodbyes with the house-elf, and speedily left the kitchens, each clutching their new robes.

“A play?” Grace said dryly when they were out of earshot.

“It was the best I could come up with,” Regulus said defensively. “I wasn’t aware you were just going to blurt your whole plan to Pokey.”

“Why not? It’s only Pokey.”

“You said it yourself this morning! She’s bound to Dumbledore. If you told her the truth, she’d _have_ to tell him.”

“Only if he asks,” Grace pointed out.

“Well, _now_ if he asks, she’ll tell him that we were just putting on a play.”

“Yeah, and that’s not suspicious?”

Regulus considered this for a moment. “It doesn’t really matter if he believes it, right? So long as the other Slytherins back us up. And they would, if it came down to it.”

“That’s true,” Grace granted. “Especially if we told them we were actually pranking some Gryffindors.”

“Don’t say that so loudly!” Regulus glanced behind himself furtively. “Someone might hear you.”

“I’m _whispering_.”

“Your version of whispering is shouting,” Regulus said matter-of-factly, continuing to look behind him as they inched forward.

“You sure are on edge,” Grace noted.

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, this is my first time breaking into the Gryffindor tower.”

“What a coincidence—it’s my first time, too!” She smiled goofily at him, and Regulus eased up, but only slightly.

“We ought to be careful is all I’m saying.”

“We _are_ being careful, Regulus,” she assured. “You stopped me from telling Pokey our whole plan. We’ve got robes so we won’t seem out-of-place. Everything’s going smoothly. Just _relax_.”

“Okay,” Regulus nodded frantically, eyes darting about. “Just relax. Sure.”

“How about you just…not think so hard about this, okay? And let’s go change into these robes.”

They stopped by one of the bathrooms on their way up to the Gryffindor tower, each slipping into their new robes quickly and emerging with frowns.

“What’s wrong?” they each asked the other once they regrouped near the stairwell.

Grace’s brows rose and Regulus’s furrowed.

“You first,” Grace said.

“I just don’t like the robes,” Regulus said, glancing down at the lion crest emblazoned onto his chest. “It’s strange.”

“Yeah,” Grace sighed, moving forward, “I think so, too. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“It doesn’t,” he agreed. “Maybe it’s because this is someone’s dirty laundry.”

Grace wrinkled her nose. “Pokey probably washed them before she gave them to us, right? I mean…they don’t smell bad.”

“Let’s hope,” Regulus said gravely.

They rounded up on the staircase that led to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and found, to their utter confusion, a large mass of Gryffindor students rushing out of the common area. They were stampeding away from the portrait and down the stairs. Regulus and Grace flattened themselves against the banister, blending into the throng of Gryffindors easily.

“This is good,” Grace said.

“This is _madness_ ,” Regulus breathed. “What in Merlin’s name has gotten into them?”

“I dunno. Maybe they’re all late for a club.”

“For a club?” Regulus repeated. “What club has fifty odd Gryffindors in it?”

“Gobstones?”

“ _Gobstones_?”

“Regulus, are you just going to repeat everything I say, or are we going to enter the common room now?” Grace gestured at a large group of disgruntled Gryffindors stepping out of the portrait hole. “No one will see us amongst the crowd if we head in now.”

Regulus took a deep breath and readied himself. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Grace looked at him, really looked at him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “If you really don’t want to do this, Regulus, then you don’t have to. I don’t want you to be—” her heart twisted uncomfortably, and the words _mad at me_ flashed through her mind, “—upset.”

“No, I—” his gaze was fixed on the portrait hole, “—want to see what’s in there.”

He might as well have said, _I want to see what Sirius sees_. It was there in his eyes, clear and plain as glass. Grace knew that look he wore, the one with the slight crease between the brows, the bitter twist of the lips, the brewing storm behind his eyes. She was wearing the same expression on her own face.

“Okay,” she said, hand slipping off his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

She bounded forward, and stepped in front of the Fat Lady, who glanced down at her imperiously. “Have I seen you before?”

It was best not to lure her into any sort of conversation, in case she figured out Grace and Regulus weren’t supposed to be there. “Ragamuff—” Grace started hastily, but before she could finish, the portrait swung open of its own accord.

Another group of students was stepping out. This one was much smaller than the previous one, with just five older Gryffindors, all grumbling about some mess that had been left behind in the common room.

Grace dashed around them, brushing against one of the exiting students.

“Hey,” the Gryffindor greeted absentmindedly as Grace stepped by him.

“Hello, fellow Gryffindor!” Regulus practically shouted, close behind Grace. “Have a brave day!”

The student twisted around in confusion. “What…?”

Alarmed, Grace grabbed Regulus’s wrist and pulled him towards the first thing she saw—a small alcove between a large bookshelf and the corner wall. They were partially hidden from sight, but anyone who really looked could spot them in an instant.

“Have a brave day?” she repeated exasperatedly.

“I don’t know!” Regulus said. “Gryffindors are supposed to be brave, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but I don’t think they go around wishing people to have brave days, Regulus.” Grace sighed. “Just act _normal_ , okay?”

“Right,” Regulus said anxiously. “Normal. Sure.” He fidgeted with his hands for a moment and then blurted out, “But isn’t it _normal_ for them to be brave?”

“Regulus, why don’t you just stay silent and let me do all the talking?”

“Okay, yes.” He nodded. “That’s probably a good idea.”

Grace peeked out from beyond the side of the bookshelf, surveying the common room. Her eyes ate up the sight greedily. It was blazing with warmth. The whole of the room was awash in reds and golds, and lit bright by the glow of the fireplace. There were swarms of students ambling about, but none of them actually seemed relaxed. They were walking about jerkily, stepping over some small, spiked plants that had been littered about the floor of the common room.

“What are those?” Grace asked Regulus, pointing to the plants.

He followed her finger. “I don’t know. Are they supposed to be there?”

“Probably not.” The plants were a vivid green, and clashed horribly with the decor of the common area. They were most likely the cause behind the Gryffindors’ mass exodus from the tower, but Grace wasn’t sure why. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just head up to the dormitory.”

No sooner had she and Regulus stepped out from their little hiding spot, careful not to trip over some nearby plants, a Prefect materialized from out of thin air.

“Er—we were just heading up,” Grace started, wondering where on earth the older student had come from, but the Prefect didn’t seem to care.

“That’s fine. Just watch were you step,” she said smartly, pulling Regulus and Grace away from the haphazardly strewn plants. “Potter and Black got hold of a slew of Mimbulus mimbletonia. They’ve bloomed, so if you so much as brush against one with your shoe, you’ll get covered head to toe in Stinksap.”

Regulus stared at the Prefect. He seemed unsure on how to react to this news. Grace wondered if he was torn between asking _how_ his brother managed to procure such a rare plant and _why_ his brother had spread said plant across the Gryffindor common room.

“Oh,” Grace said. “Okay. Thanks for the warning.” She grabbed onto Regulus once more. “We’ll just be on our way, then.”

“Say,” the Prefect said, eyes flickering to Regulus, “haven’t I seen you before? You look rather familiar…like—”

Like Sirius Black. He looked almost exactly like his brother, except, perhaps, with shorter hair and a weaker chin. But the resemblance was still there and was noticeable for anyone who had two perfectly functioning eyes, and Grace floundered for a moment, trying to find a way to bring the Prefect’s attention away from Regulus.

Her eyes trailed down to a nearby Mimbulus mimbletonia, and before the Prefect could utter her next word, Grace lobbed the small plant forward with her foot. It sailed upwards and hit Regulus against the thigh. As soon as it struck Regulus, the plant spasmed and, with a loud, upsetting squelch, a large stream of Stinksap jetted out.

Grace ducked to the floor in an instant, shutting her eyes and only opening them when she heard Regulus’s horrified gasp.

“Grace!” Regulus cried out in shock.

She looked up slowly, and winced as she saw huge globs of Stinksap spread over Regulus’s robes. Some had gotten on his head, too, but it had been partially smeared off.

“Oops,” Grace said sheepishly. 

“Merlin’s fucking beard,” the Prefect muttered, stepping away and flinging Stinksap off of her own arm. “This is just _great_. That’s going to be ten points from Gryffindor.” She twisted around to catch ahold of Grace and Regulus, but the two had already fled from her sight.

Grace dragged Regulus up to the boy’s dormitory, stopping at the second flight, where James’s room must be.

“Grace!” he cried out once more, stopping her. “What in Merlin’s name—”

“I’m sorry,” she said at once. “It was the only thing I could think of. She was a second away from realizing you’re Sirius’s brother and you’re _not_ in Gryffindor, and the plant was right there!”

“Our plan is in shambles,” Regulus wailed, flinging some more Stinksap off of himself. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“It’s just a little Stinksap,” Grace said in what she hoped was a soothing voice.

It did not have the effect she wanted.

“A _little_?” Regulus said shrilly.

“Sorry,” Grace repeated, but this apology came out more exasperated. She pushed open the door to the dormitory and, to her relief, it was deserted. “We’ll talk about this later, okay? Let’s just grab the pants and get out of here before something else happens.”

“Why did it have to be Stinksap?” Regulus wailed to himself, following Grace inside. “Why can’t they do nice pranks? Why can’t they shower students in flowers?”

“Because they’re our brothers and they’re gits?” Grace offered as explanation, looking about the room.

It was a lot cleaner than she expected. She half-thought the dormitory would look like a tornado had ripped through it—loose papers, dirty laundry in a heap on the floor, biting teacups scattered around the floor. Instead, the place was nearly spotless, except for the odd textbook laying about and the pile of socks at the foot of someone’s bed.

Regulus caught onto her line of thought, because he immediately commented, “This place is rather tidy for a couple of gits.”

“Yeah.” Grace frowned. “It’s sort of weird.”

“Oh, look,” Regulus said flatly, pointing to a bed with cut-out pictures of some Muggle inventions glued to the wall. “It’s Sirius’s bed.”

Grace squinted at the pictures. “What are those supposed to be?”

“I dunno,” Regulus sighed, collapsing on Sirius’s bed and spreading Stinksap onto it. “It’s a Muggle machine. It’s like a bicycle but it goes on its own.”

Grace looked at the photos appreciatively. The machines looked rather bulky to be bicycles, but the structure was there. “Wicked. I didn’t know Muggles could do that.”

Regulus grunted noncommittally. “Have you found your brother’s pants yet?”

“Er—” Grace swiveled around and caught sight of James’s trunk, bright crimson with a lion’s head as the lock, at the foot of the bed next to Sirius’s, “—here it is!” She bent down and grinned as it opened automatically. “He didn’t even lock it. Can you believe that?”

“To be quite honest with you, Grace—yes, yes I can.”

Grace rummaged about the trunk for a minute or so before pulling out all of James’s pants. Predictably, they were all colored red and gold, and patterned with some or the other Gryffindor insignia. She wouldn’t expect anything less from him.

She bundled the pants in one of James’s robes and rose, clutching the bundle close to her, and cocking her head at Regulus, who was now deliberately spreading Stinksap on Sirius’s pillow.

“So, you’ve just moved onto malicious pranks, have you?”

“Serves him right,” Regulus said darkly, “putting Stinksap-spurting plants in the common room.” He rose and glanced at Grace. “Have you finished?”

“Yeah,” Grace said, crossing out of the dormitory and descending down the stairs. “Let’s leave and return these robes to Pokey. We’ll grab some dinner, and then I’ve—”

“I can’t go outside like this!” Regulus cut in at the foot of the stairs, gesturing at the fast-drying Stinksap that covered the side of his head and his robes.

Grace stopped and looked at him, biting the inside of her cheek. It was her fault he was covered in the foul sludge, wasn’t it? “Okay, okay,” she said hurriedly, placing down her bundle and drawing out her wand. “I’ll—er—oh, I know! I’ll Scourgify it off of you.”

“Do you _actually_ know that spell?”

“I’ve seen my mum do it loads of time. ‘Course I know how to do it.” Grace pointed her wand at him and called out, “Scourgify!”

A small wad of Stinksap flew off his shoulder and across the room, hitting a wayward Gryffindor student in the back of his head.

“Hey!” he called out, twisting around.

“Sorry!” Regulus said, wincing. “Didn’t mean for that to happen. Have a brave day!”

“Sweet Circe,” Grace muttered under his breath.

“Oh.” The student seemed taken aback by Regulus’s response. “Er—yeah, right on?” he said, turning back.

“Come here,” Grace said, pulling Regulus back to the secluded corner they had occupied earlier. She set her bundle on the floor. “Okay, let’s try this again. Scourgify!”

Again, a small ball of Stinksap went flying from Regulus’s robes, but the large majority of it remained. Grace bit back a groan.

“At this rate we’re going to be here all night,” Regulus complained.

“I just need a bit of practice,” Grace said defensively. “I’ve never done this before, okay?”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you got me covered in Stinksap,” Regulus said bitterly.

“I’m sorry!” Grace said. “I didn’t want to do it, but it was the only thing I could think of in the moment. I’ll get it off you, Regulus. I promise.”

Regulus’s eyes softened. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, another voice called out:

“Hello, Grace. Are you alright?”

Grace whipped around so quickly, the tip of her wand scraped up some of the Stinksap on Regulus’s robes. Right behind her was Lily Evans, eyes as bright and green and kind as ever, and Grace immediately wished she could disappear into the floor. Her last encounter with Lily, in the library, hadn’t exactly gone well, had it?

“Er—hello,” Grace said, not quite making eye contact and wishing furiously that Lily might have mistaken her for _another_ Grace.

Lily’s eyes flickered to Regulus, who still had bits of Stinksap slathered about his robes and stuck in his hair. Regulus waved at her limply. Lily simply smiled in amusement.

“So?” Lily asked after a moment of awkward staring in Grace’s part.

“So…?” Grace repeated, wondering if Lily was expecting some sort of apology for ruining their tutoring session by accidentally knocking down the library and then setting it on fire.

“Are you alright?” the redhead repeated. “It’s just—well, you’re definitely not in Gryffindor, last I remember. But I don’t want to jump to conclusions or anything like that.” She smiled nervously. “So, just thought I’d check in.”

“No, no,” Grace said immediately, “everything is fine. Definitely, one hundred percent fine. Right, Regulus?”

“Yes!” Regulus said, voice at least an octave higher than it should be. “We’re feeling very—er—chivalrous today.”

Grace wished now more than ever that the floor could swallow her up.

To her great surprise, Lily’s anxious smile gave way to a laugh. “Well, that’s good to hear. Do you need help getting that off you?” Before Regulus could respond, Lily whipped her wand out and said, “Scourgify!”

The Stinksap vanished without a trace, and Regulus let out an incredible sigh of relief. He dusted off his robes and patted down his hair before facing Lily with a soft smile.

“Thank you,” he gushed. “That was very brave of you.”

A furrow appeared between Lily’s brows but her own grin remained. “Er—yeah, I guess. It was no problem, really. I got doused in Stinksap this morning.”

“This _morning_?” Regulus said. “This has been around all day?”

“Yeah.” Lily frowned, glancing at the scattered plants. “Someone tried to levitate them out of here, but they ended up brushing the mantle, and the whole common room was covered in Stinksap. Apparently, Sprout is supposed to come after dinner and help—”

“Sprout?” Grace cut in worriedly, glancing at Regulus. A professor would _definitely_ know that they didn’t belong in the Gryffindor common room, and although Sprout was one of the nicer teachers, Grace didn’t put it past the elderly professor to assign detentions. Grace lifted her bundle off the ground and latched onto Regulus. “We’ve got to go. Goodbye!”

“Wait, but I wanted to talk about—” Lily started, but Grace was already dashing towards the portrait hole, not at all eager for the older girl to pull her into a conversation about the ramifications of destroying school property.

“Have a brave day!” Regulus called back as the portrait opened and they left the Gryffindor common room.

“Regulus,” Grace sighed in disapproval.

“What?” he said defensively. “I think it’s nice, actually.”

“Come on,” she said, tugging him along, “we’ve got to return these robes to Pokey. And then—” she grinned brightly at him, lifting the bundle of pants, “—these have got to be strung up about the courtyard.”

Regulus’s eyes flickered to James’s stolen underwear. “I’m not helping you with that.”

Grace shrugged good-naturedly. “Suit yourself. You don’t know what you’ll be missing out on.”

“Sounds like I’ll be missing out on stringing your brother’s pants about the courtyard, and, strangely enough, I’m perfectly fine with that.”

“I meant you’ll be missing out on spending time with _me_.”

“Thank Merlin.”

Grace rolled her eyes at him. “You were much nicer when you still had Stinksap all over you.”

Regulus glowered at her. “Don’t think I’m going to let that go anytime soon.”

“It was the only thing I could think of!”

* * *

After a quick dinner with Regulus in the kitchens (during which he, predictably, forgave Grace for the Stinksap incident after much prodding and pleading), Grace raced to the Hogwarts courtyard. There were still a couple of students heading in for curfew, so she waited in a small alcove until the area was deserted. Her eyes wandered over the spindly stone archway, the small statues of gargoyles that topped the columns, the wings of the carved griffins that decorated the fountain, trying to figure out which one was the best place for James’s underwear.

When the last of the students trickled out, Grace set to work, levitating the pants over the gargoyles. Grace figured that, this way, they’d be at the perfect height for everyone to see but too out of reach for anyone to remove.

Once the final gargoyle was graced with a pair of pants with golden Snitches, Grace turned on her heel and fled back into Hogwarts, biting back a grin. She knew that no one would know _whose_ underwear it was that had been strewn across the courtyard, but she knew that James would know, and that was all that really mattered, wasn’t it?

She darted around some suits of armor, taking care to stick close to the shadows. She didn’t want to have a chance run-in with any stray professors or Prefects. The last thing she wanted was another detention. The ones she had served with Slughorn had been enough to last her a lifetime. She’d rather have Binns ignore her for three straight hours than sit and listen to the Potions teacher’s ceaseless prattling. She didn’t understand how James had survived the one-hundred something detentions he had gotten last year.

But, then again, James was James. He probably thought to liven up detention, and that likely got him even _more_ detentions.

Grace bounded down the stairwell to the dungeons, stopping when she caught sight of a shadow down at the end of the hallway. It was making its way down, towards her. She glanced around frantically, hoping that there might be someplace to hide, but the dungeons were bare as bone. There were just musty cobwebs in the corners and rusted grates.

She made to move towards the other end of the hall, but before she could, the person to whom the shadow belonged turned the corner. She froze in an instant, anxiously trying to summon some explanation for her breaking curfew. Maybe she could tell whoever it was that she had just come from the Hospital Wing?

“Oh, I should have known,” the Prefect sighed, lowering his wand.

Grace met his eyes and relaxed when she realized it was only Avery—hair neat as usual and his signature grimace plastered across his face. “Hello, Avery. How have you been?”

“Are you serious right now?” he said. “Get back to bed. Why are you even out at this time of night? Wait—don’t answer that. It’s better if you don’t tell me, because then I won’t have to take even more points off.”

“Take points off?” Grace repeated. “You’re going to take points?”

“You’re out of bed, and it’s past curfew,” Avery said flatly.

“So, you’re going to take points off just for that?” Grace argued. “From Slytherin?”

“Well, that’s your House, isn’t it?”

“It’s your House, too.”

“Are you suggesting I shouldn’t take points from Slytherin just because it’s my own House?”

Grace paused, biting the inside of her cheek. “Well— _no_ , but! What if I had a good reason for staying out past curfew?”

“Like what?” Avery scoffed. “Were you out discovering a cure for Dragon Pox?”

Grace looked at him very carefully. “Er…yes.”

“Yes?” Avery repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes, you were out of bed at night because you were making a cure for Dragon Pox?”

“Can you prove otherwise?” Grace challenged. She gestured down the hall. “I was just coming from the Potions room.”

“So you broke into the Potions classroom so you could work on your alleged cure?”

Grace opened her mouth and then promptly closed it. She glared at Avery. “This isn’t fair! You’re making it really difficult to come up with a good excuse.”

He stared at her for one long moment and then shook his head, turning on his heel. “Come on, I’ll escort you back to the common room. You can come up with a ‘good excuse’ in the meanwhile.”

“Escort me?” Grace said, following behind him. “Why do you need to escort me?”

“Because you’re a troublemaker.”

Grace glanced at him, somewhat impressed. He’d said the words with the same tone and cadence her aunt and uncle did. “ _I’m_ the troublemaker?” she said rather haughtily. “ _You’re_ roaming about the castle at night, too. What exactly are you up to?”

“Does this badge just mean nothing to you?” Avery said, pointing at the Prefect pin stuck to his robes.

“You know, it seems like an abuse of power to me—sneaking around the castle, accosting students on the pretense of being a Prefect—”

“Merlin’s beard, you should become a prosecutor for the Wizengamot,” Avery muttered. “You’ve already got a handle on twisting any situation to meet your needs.”

Grace’s eyes lit up. “Do you really think I could? That’d be wicked—sending criminals to Azkaban.”

“I think you’d burn the Ministry to the ground if you were let in.”

“Not on _purpose_ ,” Grace protested.

“You do realize that just makes it worse, right?” Avery stopped outside the Slytherin common room, and looked down at Grace. “Alright, what’s your excuse, then?”

Grace weighed her options in her head. It didn’t seem likely that Avery would give her a detention, and he probably wouldn’t buy any lie she told him. She might as well just tell him what she was really up to. Points were just points, after all; Regulus could earn them back in class tomorrow.

“I was levitating my brother’s pants onto the gargoyle statues in the courtyard.”

“You…” he began slowly, “broke into the Gryffindor tower, stole your brother’s property, and then vandalized school property with what you stole?”

Grace gaped at him. “Well, don’t say it like that! You’re making me sound like some sort of criminal. Besides, _you’re_ the one who gave me the password, remember?”

“Ah, right,” he said, very much looking like he regretted that particular decision. “I thought you’d use it to talk to your brother—”

“Do I really look like the type of person who talks things out?”

“Good point.” Avery glanced at the wall that concealed the common room. “Well, go on, then. It’s late enough. You’ve got classes tomorrow.”

“You’re not taking away points?”

“Would you like me to?”

“ _Obviously_ not, Avery. But you said you were going to.”

He shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

Grace struggled to keep her face from breaking out into a grin. Part of her thought that Regulus was right: Avery was a terrible Prefect. But another part of her felt that Avery honestly did like her, and that was sort of comforting. She didn’t have many friends in Slytherin.

“Okay, well,” Grace shuffled on her feet, “goodbye, then.”

“Goodnight,” Avery said, turning to continue his patrol. “Try to refrain from destroying the common room.”

Grace rolled her eyes at his receding form before murmuring the Slytherin password— _serpent_ —and watching the stone wall vanish. She half-expected the Slytherin common room to seem dull, now that she had seen the glamor of the Gryffindor one.

The Gryffindor common room was everything James had told her—bold, with bright banners of scarlet and gleaming gold, and warm, the heat of the dancing hearth washing over the whole of the room, and comfy, with small circles of couches squeezed next to each other and cramped bookshelves lining the walls and chattering students milling about. It was full of life.

But as Grace stepped into the Slytherin common area, as she saw straggling students slink about the corners of the room, refusing to speak to one another unless absolutely necessary, as she listened to the gentle lap of the lake against the wide windows, as she walked through the sparse and spaced-out clumps of couches and tables—she realized she _hadn’t_ liked the Gryffindor common room at all.

The Gryffindor common area demanded attention. It was full to the brim with students, with noise, with her brother’s antics. It would have been so tiring to spend time there, but, thankfully, she didn’t spend time there. She spent time in Slytherin, near the flickering hearth with Regulus, each silently working on their separate homework assignments, or sprawled over one of the couches, speedily reading through some novel.

This place was a sanctuary. It was a place her brother and her father and her mother did not know about, would never know about. It was a place that was all her own. It was a place where the world would not force itself onto you, where you could forget that other people existed, where you could sit and charm ninety-nine Howlers late into the night and not a single person would say a word.

 


	13. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace discovers a new side of Dirk Cresswell.

To Grace’s utter dismay, the pants prank hadn’t been as big as she thought it would be. Since the following morning was a school day, not many people caught sight of the pants-strung courtyard before professors took note and had it all taken down. To make matters worse, James spun the whole incident to his advantage during breakfast, claiming that it was Bertram Aubrey’s underpants that he had hung across the Hogwarts courtyard. Of course, Aubrey denied this fiercely, but it only made the story more believable.

“Can you believe the nerve of him?” Grace huffed to Regulus as they made their way to Defense. “Taking credit for that? I bet he did it just to tick me off.”

“I think it was clever, actually,” Regulus said, “because McGonagall made him clean it up, so he managed to get his pants back.”

“He also got a week of detention, so it can’t have been _that_ clever,” Grace muttered as they stepped into the classroom.

Her eyes quickly found the blackboard that had been pushed to the back of the classroom. Thankfully, it still detailed the wand motion for and effect of the Tongue-Tying Curse, which Regulus had told her was what they were practicing last class. She had gone over the spell yesterday, so hopefully she wouldn’t be too far behind.

“Ah, Miss Potter,” Professor Sanderson called when he spotted Grace.

Grace cringed besides Regulus. “Hello, sir.”

“Hello to you, too,” he said rather briskly. “You’re well now, I hope?” Grace barely nodded before he let out a booming, “Good to hear! I trust you won’t have any trouble making up any of the work you’ve missed last week?”

“Er—”

“Mr. Cresswell made a very compelling case to put off your project until you returned. As a result, you’ll be presenting about hags next class—what they are, what abilities they possess, effective measures that can be taken against them. You know the drill.”

Grace stared at the mustachioed man in front of her. Was he serious? She had only _just_ been released from St. Mungo’s, and she had a ton of other work to catch up on, too. “Okay, but—”

“Now, why don’t you head to your partner?” Sanderson cut in busily, already walking back to the front of the class. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

Grace ground her teeth and turned on her heel, catching sight of Cresswell lounging near the back. He seemed to be trying to camouflage himself amongst the black curtains.

“I already have some notes about hags, if you want,” Regulus offered.

“Thanks,” Grace said. “But, somehow, I think Cresswell and I will be doing this one during History of Magic, as per usual.”

A small, disapproving frown overcame Regulus’s features, but he didn’t say anything, instead striding towards his own partner, a sloe-eyed Hufflepuff with a cheery grin.

Grace sped off towards the back, but faltered when she caught sight of Cresswell, who seemed worse for wear. His dark hair was disheveled, sticking up in multiple different directions, and his eyes were darting to and fro nervously.

“Hello,” she said cautiously, not quite approaching the black curtains he had nested himself into.

“You’re back,” Cresswell said, and he seemed uncharacteristically relieved by her presence. He batted away the curtains and stepped forward.

“What is it?” Grace asked suspiciously, inching away Cresswell. “Why’re you so happy to see me? You’re never happy to see me.”

“I’m _not_ happy to see you,” Cresswell said immediately, although the tension in his shoulders disappeared, and he was now roaming around in the open instead of huddled in some curtains. “Where’ve you been all this while?”

“I was sick,” Grace said flatly.

“I see.” Cresswell nodded in understanding. “Flu, was it?”

Grace didn’t answer this. Instead, she asked, “Why’re you acting all weird?” She glanced around the room, and her eyes skimmed over Yaxley, who stood tall and boorish as ever, chatting coolly with Rosier and ignoring his Hufflepuff partner. “Regulus told me you’d been partnered with Yaxley, and he shot a spell that made you puke. Are you—er—okay?”

Cresswell’s eyes darkened. “That story’s making rounds, is it?”

“Well, if a student started up and vomiting in the middle of class, I think people would probably take notice.”

Cresswell rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Yaxley did that. He also set my robes on fire—”

“He _what_?”

“Alright students,” Sanderson called, clapping his hands for attention. “We’ll be continuing our practice with the Tongue-Tying Curse. You know the drill!”

Grace turned away from the front of the classroom and found Cresswell had already crossed to the other side, wand raised. Her eyes widened in alarm and she fished around rapidly for her own wand. Just as her hand wrapped around the hilt, Cresswell’s curse hit her, and Grace grimaced as she felt her tongue warp.

“Hngh hoo hurr!” she spat, trying to convey her ire. All she accomplished was spitting up some saliva.

“Well done, Mr. Cresswell,” Sanderson said appreciatively, walking over and performing the counter-curse on Grace before quickly moving on to another student in need.

“What’d you say?” Cresswell asked from afar.

“I said ‘don’t do that!’” Grace rubbed stray drool from her chin, and crossed over to Cresswell’s side. She gave him a vicious glare. “Merlin’s beard—I’m stuck in St. Mungo’s for nearly a week, and _this_ is the greeting I get?”

“We’re supposed to be practicing the spell,” Cresswell said defensively.

“You never finished answering my question,” Grace said. “What happened with you and Yaxley?”

Cresswell sighed. “I dunno. I suppose his brain’s just full of bollocks, so he does stupid and ridiculous things, like hex me when he thinks no one is looking.”

“Exactly how many people know you’re Muggle-born, Cresswell?”

“Well, I hardly knew it was some big secret I was supposed to keep, did I?”

Grace looked across the room again, eyes narrowing in on Yaxley. Her lips twisted into a scowl. She hardly talked to the boy, but she knew Regulus spoke to him on occasion, seeing as they shared a dormitory. Regulus had told her Yaxley was rather haughty and enjoyed lording himself over anyone who didn’t meet his standards. Apparently one of his standards was being a knobhead, because that was what all his friends—the Rosiers, Wilkinson, a couple of older Slytherins—were.

“We ought to get back at him,” Grace said.

“We?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at Cresswell. “We’ll be much better about it, of course, seeing as we don’t have bollocks in our brains. We can pretend we’re going to hit each other with the Tongue-Tying Curse, but really we’ll aim something at Yaxley.”

“Sanderson would notice if we shot a random spell across the classroom.”

Grace frowned. Her eyes roved around the room, taking in the bright flashes of blue light as student after student attempted the new spell. “How about we cast a Knockback? The spell’s basically the same color as this one. Sanderson won’t notice.”

Cresswell lent it some thought, and then nodded. “Alright, sure. But you’ve got to do it. You’re at a better vantage point on your side.”

Grace shrugged. She had no qualms about this, especially since Yaxley had apparently set Cresswell’s bleeding _robes on fire_. To be quite honest, she thought a simple Knockback Jinx was rather a tame punishment, but she didn’t want to run the risk of getting caught by doing something more elaborate.

It wasn’t the detention she feared in this case. It was her fellow Slytherins. It was alright to trade barbs and hexes all day, but if it was done at the behest of a student who _wasn’t_ in Slytherin…well, then you weren’t very loyal, were you? And there wasn’t a thing on the planet that Slytherins despised more than betrayal.

Grace moved back to her own side, and she raised her wand, seemingly aiming for Cresswell. But as she mouthed the words— _Flipendo!_ —she shifted the angle of her hand, and grinned to herself as the bolt of blue erupted from the tip of her wand, sailing past the other curses and hitting Yaxley square in the chest.

Yaxley let out a great cry of fear as he tumbled over, landing against a large shelf of books. The force of the collision caused the bookshelf to topple over, and the crash was deafening. Students faltered their spell casting, and stared as a red-faced Yaxley sat at the foot of the mess.

“Mr. Yaxley!” Sanderson cried out, aghast. “That’ll be ten points from Slytherin for the mess—”

Yaxley glared at the professor. “But it wasn’t—”

“I won’t stand for any tomfoolery,” Sanderson interrupted sternly. “You’re meant to be practicing the Tongue-Tying Curse, not fooling around on your own. Now, get back to work. All of you!”

With one wave of his wand, Sanderson cleared up the clutter of fallen books. Students hesitantly turned away from the sight while Yaxley steamed behind Sanderson’s back. Grace glanced at Cresswell, whose face was split by a grin.

 _Nice, right?_ she mouthed when his attention was back on her.

Instead of responding, Cresswell raised his wand once more.

Grace sighed and ducked as another round of the Tongue-Tying Curse was flung her way.

* * *

“Look, it was just one little Knockback,” Grace sighed as she walked alongside Regulus. “And Yaxley wasn’t hurt or anything.”

Dinner had come and gone, and Regulus was _still_ hung up about the incident in DADA earlier that day. Grace could sort of see where his concern was coming from—hexing students willy-nilly, even if it was the decent thing to do, was absolutely not allowed, and the consequences could have been catastrophic. For instance, Regulus had said, what if her Knockback Jinx had hurtled Yaxley out of the window? To this, Grace had responded, ‘good riddance,’ which did nothing to placate Regulus.

“It’s not _that_ ,” Regulus said. “Yaxley is already furious about the incident. You’re lucky it was as minor as it was. If it was any more pronounced, he might think someone really did deliberately jinx him, and he wouldn’t rest until he settled the score.”

Grace could concede to this. She would rather not be a target for Yaxley’s bullying. She rather liked the contents of her stomach to stay in her stomach and for her robes to remain clean and unburnt.

“It was just once,” Grace promised, “and only so Cresswell would feel better. He was absolutely miserable.”

Regulus eyed her carefully, and then relented. “Alright, if you say—”

“Ah, look at my two favorite firsties!” a bright, jubilant voice said.

Regulus and Grace both twisted around, and caught sight of James walking towards them speedily. Both of James’s hands were hidden behind his back, and the grin that he had plastered to his face was wide and entirely unbelievable. Besides her, Regulus stiffened.

“You didn’t tell him I put the Stinksap in Sirius’s bed, did you?” Regulus whispered in her ear.

“What? No, of course not! Why would I tell him that?”

“Glad to see you two,” James noted once he was close enough to hold an actual conversation. Grace tried to crane her neck to get a look at what James had hidden behind his back, but he shifted away. “How’re you doing?”

“Er—” Regulus began.

It suddenly hit Grace that James hadn’t actually gotten her back for the pants prank. “Look,” she started hastily, “Regulus and I have got boatloads of homework to catch up on.”

“Boatloads,” Regulus agreed immediately, nodding.

“So, we’ll catch you later, yeah?” Grace moved to grab Regulus and dash away, but James stepped in front of them.

“Homework, yeah, what a drag,” he said absently. His eyes flickered to Regulus. “Look, could you give my sister and me a few moments?”

Regulus stared at him. “Er—”

“What do you want?” Grace asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

James’s grin faltered. “I just need to talk to you.”

Grace frowned, unsure if James was being serious or if he was just being James. “Okay? But, also, before you do anything—the pants thing is the last prank I’m doing, so don’t try—”

James waved this off. “I don’t care about that.”

Grace raised a brow. “Really?” 

“Yeah. Sirius and I were mildly impressed that you managed to get into the Gryffindor tower at all. Besides, I got my pants back, so no harm, no foul. Not to mention, everyone thinks it was actually Aubrey’s pants, so what do I care?” James paused. “Although, to be honest, spreading the Stinksap on Sirius’s bed was a bit uncalled for.”

Regulus swallowed thickly.

“That wasn’t me!” Grace said. “Why would I spread that onto Sirius’s bed? He wasn’t the one who turned my hair green.”

“No?” James said, and his brows furrowed. “Then who—oh, Merlin’s beard! It must have been Ward. She’s had it out for Sirius ever since he transfigured her mail into pastries.”

Grace shrugged. “Then I guess it was her.”

“Great,” James sighed. “Now I’ve got to go and prepare something for her. Merlin, and Sprout got rid of all our Stinksap plants, too—”

“No, don’t do that!” Regulus cut in, aghast at the prospect of someone else taking the fall for his crime. “I did it!”

“Regulus,” Grace hissed.

James snorted. “You? Yeah, not likely.”

“No, I did,” Regulus insisted, hanging his head in shame. “Grace got Stinksap on me, and I was just so irritated. I’m sorry.”

“Really?” James said, looking at Regulus with new eyes. “And here I thought you were just some poor sap.” He clapped Regulus on the back with one of his hands, the other remaining steadfastly hidden. Regulus almost vaulted into the air at the abrupt contact. “Good on you for taking the initiative.”

Grace rolled her eyes.

“Anyway, now that that’s all cleared up,” James said, clearing his throat, “could you bugger off? I’ve really got to talk to Grace.”

Regulus looked like he wanted nothing more than to be rid of James, but he was still hesitant about leaving Grace on her own.

“I’ll see you in the common room,” Grace assured, pushing Regulus forward.

“Alright,” he said, but glanced at James suspiciously before leaving.

Once he was out of earshot, Grace crossed her arms over her chest and stared at James stonily. “What is it?”

James’s hands appeared from behind his back. In them was a messily-wrapped present. It was reasonably large and square. The wrapping paper looked like it belonged to a five-year-old; it was decorated with flowers and sparkles, and there was a thick scarlet ribbon that had been clumsily tied around the whole thing.

“What’s this supposed to be?” Grace said, staring at it with something like revulsion. “It’s not my birthday for nearly a month, James.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for Sniv—er, Snape.”

“That kid you hate so much?” Grace leaned forward and spotted a tag attached to the side of the gift. She lifted it; written in cursive were the words _from an admirer_. She snorted. “Nobody would fall for this.”

“Nah, he would,” James said. “He’ll probably think it’s from Evans, and fawn all over it.”

“Evans?” Grace repeated, and racked her brains. “You mean Lily?”

James pursed his lips. “Yeah.”

“Wait a minute,” Grace began. The image of the tall, dour boy besides Lily in the library came to mind in an instant. “ _That’s_ the Snivellus you’re always going on about? Lily’s friend?”

James made a face. “Why she’s his friend is beyond me. I’d rather be friends with a fire crab.”

“I just—what the— _James_.” Grace shook her head. “You want me to deliver this to him since he’s in Slytherin? Is that it?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” James offered her the present.

“That’s all? Why’d you have to send Regulus away for that?”

He shrugged half-heartedly. “I dunno. In case he knows Snivellus and goes and tells him that this is really from Sirius and me.”

Grace scowled at him. “Why would Regulus do that? First of all, he doesn’t know Snivellus. Second of all, even if he did, he _wouldn’t_ tell him.”

“Let’s agree to disagree.”

“Agree to—what? You know what? No, I’m _not_ going to deliver this for you.” She pushed the gift back towards James, glaring at him. “Merlin, you can be so insensitive sometimes, you know?”

“Hey, that was a spot-on impression of Evans,” he joked somewhat desperately. When Grace didn’t even crack a smile, he changed gears and pled, “Grace, c’mon, _please_?”

“No.”

The theatrics came in an instant: “What? Really? After everything we’ve been through together?” James started dramatically. “After that time when I was eight and I saved you from drowning in that pond?”

“You were the one who pushed me in,” Grace said flatly.

“After I took the fall for that dratted pants-strung-in-the-courtyard prank?” He looked at her pointedly. “You know, I got detention for that.”

Grace scoffed. “You didn’t have to take credit for that. That was your own idiocy’s doing.”

“Come on,” James pleaded once more, offering the present again, “Sirius and I have been working on this for the better part of a week. It’d be a shame to see it go to waste. All you’ve got to do is put it on Snivellus’s bed.”

Grace eyed the present suspiciously. “What is it?”

“An exploding Dungbomb.”

Her forehead creased in confusion. “Don’t all Dungbombs explode when you fling them?”

“Yeah, but this one’s on a timer, and we stuffed it with some excess Stinksap from the other prank we did, just for good measure—”

“Hold on,” Grace interrupted.“If this present of yours is on a timer, couldn’t it explode on my way to the Slytherin common room?”

“Not if you’re quick about it,” James protested.

Grace narrowed her eyes at her brother and inched away from the present. “You’re on your own for this one, James. I’m not risking getting doused in Stinksap and bits of dung for someone I don’t even know.”

“Please,” James said. “You’re already on your way back to the Slytherin common room. You might as well take this with you.”

“I won’t! Besides, what if I’m caught? They’ll be mad, and Slytherins don’t go easy on first-years just because they’re first-years,” Grace said resolutely. “They’d _especially_ hate it if they found out I was doing this for a Gryffindor. If this matters to you so much, can’t you just delay the timer and owl it to Snivellus?”

James considered this and deflated. “Alright, fine.” He hefted the dangerous present underneath his arm. “Hopefully Remus can figure out how to delay the charm we put till morning.” He levied another sigh at her. “Will you at least tell me who _actually_ put the Stinksap in Sirius’s bed, then? Was it really not you?”

Grace gaped at him. “What are you talking about? Regulus already told you he did it.”

James’s brows rose. “So, he was telling the truth?”

“Yes! Merlin, has years of getting knocked in the head with a Quaffle damaged your brain or something?”

James ignored her. “Huh. I just thought he was trying to impress me. Imagine that.”

“ _Impress_ you?” Grace repeated. “What on earth is there to impress?”

“Alright, now you’re just being cruel.” James cradled his dangerous gift to his chest. “Well, anyway, I’d better get going before this lovely present explodes. I’ll see you around, Grassie.”

“I hope not,” Grace muttered, turning on her heel and stalking away.

She made her way down to the stairwell, fully intending to storm off to the Slytherin common room and reel Regulus into a game of Exploding Snap, when she caught sight of Cresswell skirting about the handrail on the floor above. She stopped where the wall curved, and peered up, frowning as the Hufflepuff looked around furtively, dark eyes darting about. He looked rather anxious, and it reminded Grace of how he’d acted in DADA, when it hadn’t yet been clear if he was to be partnered with Yaxley again.

Cresswell disappeared past the stairs, and Grace bit the inside of her cheek. She had never been one for following people around, but when someone as aloof as Cresswell was acting as paranoid as he was…then surely some exceptions ought to be made, right? Someone should keep an eye on him, just to make sure he’d be okay.

She stuck close to the stone wall, and sidled up the stairs, just managing to spot Cresswell disappear up yet another flight of stairs. Silently, and with a growing sense of dread, Grace followed him up and up, until he stopped on the fourth floor, crossing the open space to stand across from a rather large mirror that had been hung at face-level.

Grace dashed over to a suit of armor, and slid behind it easily, watching worriedly as Cresswell faced the mirror. What on earth was it that he got up to outside of class?

Cresswell’s hand rose in a fist, and he tapped lightly on the mirror: two raps on the upper left hand side and three on the lower right. Immediately, the massive mirror moved, and Grace spotted a crack in the wall, a spot it had come loose from. Her brows rose. This wasn’t just any mirror; this was some sort of secret room.

From beyond the crack, a voice spoke: “Password?”

“David Bowie,” Cresswell said readily.

 _David Bowie?_ Grace thought. Who in Merlin’s name was that supposed to be?

The mirror-door opened further, and Cresswell slipped inside, greeting whoever it was that was behind the door. Grace only caught a glimpse of the inside—a curve in the wall, and a brightly lit torch hung on the left—before the mirror was shut and the passageway was closed.

Grace snuck out from behind the suit of armor, and padded over to the mirror curiously. It was clear that Cresswell wasn’t in any sort of danger, but now Grace burned to know what it was he was up to. She’d heard of a couple of secret passages in Hogwarts; her brother had discovered a few during his first year—a tunnel hidden behind a statue of a one-eyed witch, an alternate stairway concealed by a tapestry—and was likely discovering more each day. But Grace hadn’t come across one on her own yet.

The mirror, while towering, was nothing special at first glance. Its frame might have been gilded once, but time and lack of care had corroded it into a dull, green-grey color. Grace peered into the mirror, and saw her own face staring back—bright eyes, golden brown skin, and wild, dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

Hesitantly, Grace raised on her own hand and knocked on the mirror, copying the pattern she had seen.

No sooner had she finished, the mirror creaked open and the voice asked, with a certain air of boredom, “Password?”

“Er—David Bowie…?”

The person behind the mirror pulled it open completely, allowing Grace access. She stepped in, lit by the torch, and started as she heard the mirror-door close behind her.

“Haven’t seen you before. You a new recruit?”

Grace’s eyes snapped up to the boy who had opened the mirror. He was a much older student, a Gryffindor with an easygoing smile and dark hair that curled like seedlings sprouting from soil.

“Yes…?” Grace said. A _recruit_? Recruit for what, exactly?

The boy brightened. “Nice. Name’s Henry, by the way. Yours?”

“Grace,” she said, continuing to stare at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“Cool, cool.” A beat passed, and then Henry asked, “So, who’s your guide supposed to be? Anyone I know?”

“Guide…?”

“Oh, you know,” Henry said, and looked at Grace like she really ought to know. But when it was clear she didn’t he simply shrugged and said, “Who was it that recruited you? That’d be your guide.”

“Er—guide, right!” Grace said, racking her brains. “That’d be Cresswell!”

“Really?” Henry’s brows rose. “Didn’t think they’d trust the scoundrel to actually go about and recruit, but alright. You know where to find him?”

Grace looked around and saw, to her dismay, that this wasn’t a room. The space behind the mirror was shaped a bit like an oval, and narrowed into some long, winding tunnel.

She pointed pathetically at the tunnel and said, “Down there, I reckon?”

Henry snorted. “Yeah, well, once you get to headquarters, he’ll likely be in the graph paper section, unpacking.”

“Oh, okay,” Grace nodded dumbly, mind spinning. What was _graph paper_ supposed to be? “I’ll—er—get a move on, then?”

“Go on,” Henry said encouragingly. He gestured down the tunnel. “They’ll be glad for the extra hand.”

“Yeah,” Grace murmured, stepping forward.

She trekked further and further into the serpentine tunnel, very much wondering what it was she had gotten herself into. Was Cresswell part of some sort of cult? Perhaps they all worshipped this David Bowie fellow, and used graph paper to show the depth of their devotion?

This was the only explanation that made sense to Grace, and as she wound deeper and deeper into the tunnel, she felt more and more uneasy about all this. Suppose she popped out the other side, and found there was some murder ritual going on? Then, she’d have to leave, of course, and tell somebody, probably Slughorn. But he likely wouldn’t take her seriously. _Murder cult?_ he’d chortle merrily. _In Hogwarts? Perhaps we can discuss this at my Slug Club._

As Grace continued down the path, as her thoughts clustered around cults and sacrifices, the tunnel opened up into a great well of light. Grace swallowed thickly as she stepped out into the open, bracing herself for a slew of Hogwarts students in strange, bloodied masks, muttering ancient chants.

But that was not what she saw.

The tunnel did not lead to a dreary cell in Azkaban or the depths of the Forbidden Forest. It led to what seemed like a very large, very well lit basement, the interior of which was filled with dozens of Hogwarts students carrying bright colorful objects—pens, stacks of sheets, funny little squares with lots of buttons, and more. There were piles of boxes scattered about, and there were groups of students piled around their own stations. Some were giving instructions to others, some were unpacking the boxes, all were completely oblivious to Grace’s presence.

“Merlin’s beard,” Grace breathed, marveling at the production. This wasn’t any sort of cult; this was some sort of business enterprise she had stumbled upon.

Ever curious, she continued forth, head bobbing amongst the boxes, peering at the working students. Eventually, she spotted Cresswell amongst large stacks of paper. It wasn’t like the aged parchment Grace was used to. This paper was white and crisp, and trimmed short, with lines running through it in a grid formation. Grace thought this was a marvelous product; after all, in Astronomy, she had to draw the gridlines herself, and they usually came out wonky and uneven.

“Cresswell?” Grace called out, bounding over to him, a million questions teeming in her head. “Cress—”

He turned around and, the moment he caught sight of Grace, his eyes went as wide and round as Galleons. “Oh, no, no, no,” he wailed. “What are _you_ doing here?”

This was a valid question. “Er—I spotted you by this mirror, you see,” she began rather lamely. “I thought that was sort of strange, so—”

“Okay, never mind that,” Cresswell said with unusual seriousness. He dragged Grace behind a large pile of papers. “Look, you can’t be here. You’ve got to leave before—”

“Dirk?” a new voice called. Over Cresswell’s shoulder, Grace spotted a tall Ravenclaw with fair hair and a tight frown. Her wand was aloft, and she was levitating several packages at once. “Dirk, who is this?”

Cresswell whipped around. “Hullo, Anita,” he began, stepping in front of Grace and eclipsing her. “How’ve you been?”

“Dirk,” Anita said flatly, setting the floating objects onto some nearby workbenches, “who’s behind you?”

“Behind me?” Cresswell said, and made a big show of glancing to his left and right. “I don’t know what you mean—”

Anita let out an almighty sigh. She reached forward, grasped Cresswell by the shoulder, and pulled him away, revealing Grace.

Grace shrunk against the stack of papers, and let out a small, “Hullo, Anita.”

Anita’s eyes flickered to a close. She rubbed her temples with both hands before facing Cresswell. “Dirk, have you recruited without my say-so?”

Cresswell squinted at Anita. “Is the correct answer ‘no’?”

Anita pursed her lips. “This isn’t some sort of playground. You know you can’t bring your friends here—”

“She’s _not_ my friend,” Cresswell said immediately.

Grace gaped at him. “ _Not_ your friend? You wanker—I waste so much of my time sitting next to you in History of Magic, finishing your Defense essays—”

“We’re just Defense partners,” Cresswell explained to the Ravenclaw hurriedly.

“—I hexed Yaxley for you just this morning—!”

“We’re not friends,” Cresswell repeated sheepishly.

Grace scowled at him, crossing her arms over his chest. “I come down here to make sure you’re not in any trouble, and this is the thanks I get? Merlin, you’re such—”

“Merlin?” Anita caught on, voice hard. Her eyes caught hold of Cresswell once more. “Dirk, I swear to God—”

“What?” he cried out. “S’not like I _asked_ her to follow me down here. I’m the victim in all this!”

“Victim, my arse,” Anita mumbled. She raised her wand and pointed it at Grace.

Grace scrambled away, moving towards Cresswell’s side. “What’re you pointing that thing around for?”

“Well, we can’t have you going around blathering about what you’ve seen. I’ve got to Obliviate you, of course—”

“Obliviate?” both Grace and Cresswell cried out.

“Obliviate _what_?” Grace said shrilly. “I don’t even know what’s going on!”

“You know where it is we meet,” Anita pointed out. “You know the password—”

“The password changes every month!” Cresswell protested.

“It’s about the principle of the thing,” Anita said stiffly. “We can’t have pure-bloods knowing about this. Can you imagine the havoc?”

“Well, you can’t just _Obliviate_ me, either!” Grace said. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Look, rules are rules—”

“ _Grace_?” a familiar voice called out. “What in the world are you doing _here_?”

Grace’s eyes snapped to Lily Evans, who was hauling her own cardboard box. Lily’s green eyes wavered between Grace’s cowering form and Anita’s aloft wand.

“Lily,” Grace said with relief. Surely her tutor wouldn’t allowed her to be Obliviated. It probably wouldn’t be good for her brains, and it would lessen the progress she made during tutoring sessions.

“Er—Anita, I’m sure Grace didn’t mean to do…whatever it is she did,” Lily said cautiously.

Anita whipped around. When she caught sight of Lily’s face, she lowered her wand and said, “Lily, thank God you’re here. I can’t handle anymore of Dirk’s screw-ups—”

“Oi,” Cresswell protested.

“He’s brought his pure-blood friend along with him this time,” Anita continued.

“Again, not my friend,” Cresswell interjected.

“I don’t really know what to do about all this,” Anita went out with an air of frantic worry, “so I thought I’d just—” she waved her wand aimlessly, “—wipe the slate…?”

“Right,” Lily said, forehead creased. Her eyes found Grace’s pleading ones. “How about you just let me take care of this one?”

Anita’s shoulders dropped. “You’re a life saver, Lily. I’ll see you around?”

“See you,” Lily echoed, and waited until Anita disappeared behind a stack of crates to pull Grace away from Cresswell and towards a secluded corner.

“Thank Merlin you’re here!” Grace burst. “Lily, I really have no idea where I am or what’s going on—”

“It’s okay,” Lily soothed. “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m actually sort of glad that you’re here, even though the circumstances are weird and, to be honest, you really shouldn’t be here. I’ve been meaning to talk to you—”

“Yeah, sure,” Grace said hurriedly. “I’ll find you later, and we can talk, yeah?”

“Well, since we’ve got the time, I though I’d just say my piece,” Lily began. “I didn’t really get the chance the other day, when you snuck into the Gryffindor common room.”

“Right,” Grace said, glancing about the secret room anxiously. It didn’t look like she’d be free to leave on her own anytime soon, so it was probably best to give Lily an apology and hopefully that would be enough for the redhead to let her go.“Well, okay, look—I’m sorry about the library stuff. I didn’t mean for it to all go sideways, of course. It was just that James and I were in a spat—but don’t worry! Everything’s fine now—”

“No, no,” Lily cut in, laughing lightly. “Don’t worry about that. I figured it was something like that. I just heard that you’d been in St. Mungo’s, and I wanted to make sure you were alright?”

Grace stared at her. How in Merlin’s name had Lily found that out? “Er—yeah,” she said. “I’m okay. It was just a one-time thing.”

Lily nodded in understanding. “That’s good. I was a tad worried, especially since you weren’t showing up to any tutoring sessions last week, but McGonagall said it was fine.” Lily shifted for a moment and then very quickly added, “I also wanted to apologize to _you_ , because I was a bit irritated in the beginning, when you hadn’t shown. Potter had told me you weren’t ill, but I didn’t believe him and I thought maybe you’d taken after him and were skiving off. Of course, I shouldn’t have assumed the worst. Sorry about that.”

Grace didn’t know how to respond to this at all. Part of her brain was still trying to figure out where exactly she was while the other part wondered if Lily was _always_ this nice.

“Sorry?” Grace repeated. “But you haven’t done anything wrong?”

“It’s just been eating me up,” Lily admitted. “I don’t usually make it a point to judge people before getting to know them properly.”

“Well, that’s okay,” Grace said. And because it seemed that they were now in a competition, added, “Sorry about missing the tutoring sessions.”

Lily’s brows rose. “Oh, that’s not your fault at all, though.” She smiled. “But since you’re back, I suppose those’ll be starting back up?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Grace said immediately. “Sanderson’s piled on so much work, it’ll be a miracle if I get it done in time, and Flitwick’s gone through at least five chapters’ worth of material while I’ve been gone.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out. I’ll see you at the library tomorrow night?”

“Sure.” Grace nodded, and then very quickly said, “Er—by the way—I won’t _really_ have to be Obliviated, right? I really don’t know what’s going on. I just saw Cresswell acting strange, and I thought I’d see if he was okay…and then I sort of just got curious.”

Lily shook her head. “No, it’s fine. We’ve never had a pure-blood find their way in here, so I suppose Anita’s just worried. I’ll talk to her.” Lily’s red hair swung over her shoulders as she turned around. “Oi—Dirk!”

Cresswell had been lurking around some cardboard boxes, now and again peeking at the duo. He jumped and sprinted over at Lily’s call.

“Yes?” he said anxiously.

“It’s okay, you’re not in trouble,” Lily said kindly. “Do you mind just showing Grace out of here? I’ll speak to Anita in the meanwhile.”

Relief flooded Cresswell’s face. “Oh, alright,” he said. His eyes locked onto Grace’s and he inclined his head in the direction she had come from. “I’ll lead you down the tunnel, then?”

He made to turn. Grace waved a quick goodbye to Lily, and followed him, ducking underneath a flying crate of plastic, semi-circle objects. She tried not to look too much at her surroundings, in case she found out something that meant she really would have to be Obliviated, but she couldn’t help it. Whatever it was that was going on in this place was thoroughly perplexing. What were all these objects? Why were all these students collecting them? And why wasn’t she allowed to see?

When Grace and Cresswell were at the edge of the tunnel and out of earshot of the others, she asked him, “What is this place, exactly?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you…” Cresswell began thoughtfully, “but since Lily was okay with you, I guess it’s fine? But you can’t tell anyone else.”

Grace nodded eagerly. “Of course!”

“You see,” Cresswell sighed, “the way you witches and wizards go about studying at Hogwarts is absolute bollocks. Graph paper is dead useful for Astronomy, but none of you have got it. And the older students say that Hogwarts ought to make calculators mandatory for Arithmancy, but they haven’t. There are loads of Muggle things we’ve got that you lot don’t that would make your lives _much_ easier.”

Grace remembered the crate of pens in the secret room. “So, all those things you’ve got in there, they’re all Muggle things you’ve imported for yourselves?”

“Not really for ourselves. That’s sort of the twist. We order a bunch of stuff, we sneak it into Hogwarts, and then we sell them to pure-bloods for absurdly high prices.” Cresswell snorted. “It’s loads of fun. Pure-bloods haven’t a clue how money works in the Muggle world.”

Grace’s brows had risen so high, they seemed about ready to take off from her forehead completely. “Hold on—you’re running a smuggling ring? You’re just smuggling things in and selling them?”

Cresswell shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. I mean, we are called the Smugglers’ Society, so—”

“The Smugglers’ Society,” Grace breathed. Merlin, it sounded so _cool_. This wasn’t just your average Hogwarts club. This wasn’t stinking Gobstones. This was an adventure, an escapade, a caper that was right up Grace’s alley. “Can I join it? I’m awful good at sneaking around, and—”

“You absolutely can’t,” Cresswell said immediately. “This is a Muggle-born only operation. That’s why Anita wanted to Obliviate you.”

Grace deflated. “Oh, I see.”

“Sorry,” Cresswell said, not sounding very sorry at all. “There are so many things that are made for pure-bloods, you know. We made this so we’d have something for ourselves…and also to make money.”

“Right,” Grace said, nodding. The problem was, of course, that she couldn’t think of any other club at Hogwarts—pure-blood or not—that sounded even half as wicked as what Cresswell was in. “Well, thanks for telling me, I guess. I promise I won’t breathe a word of it.”

“You’d better not,” Cresswell warned, stopping just at the lip of the tunnel, where it led back to the enclave behind the mirror. “Anita would probably murder you.”

Grace grimaced at the thought. “Yeah, probably. Anyway, I’ll see you around, yeah? We’ve got our Defense project—”

“Er, yeah, why don’t we just do that during History of Magic?”

“Cresswell, we can’t do _everything_ during History of Magic.”

“I’m not saying to do everything,” Cresswell argued, “just our project.”

The words _she’s not my friend_ flashed in Grace’s head, bright and searing as the sun, and Grace grew sullen. “Alright, whatever. Goodbye, then?”

Cresswell waved, and jogged back up the way he came. Grace sighed to herself, and turned around, stepping forward and meeting the Gryffindor boy who had let her in.

“Back already?” Henry said, scrambling up from where he’d been sitting on the floor.

“Er—yeah,” Grace said lamely. “They didn’t really need my help…?”

“Huh, that’s a first.” He gestured to the back of the mirror. “Leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Here you are,” he said, pushing open the back of the mirror and showing Grace into the hallway she had entered. “Have a brave day.”

Grace whipped around. “What did you just say?”

“What?”

“You just said something about being brave.”

Henry grinned. “Yeah—have a brave day. It’s nice, right? Some first-year was shouting it in the common room the other day. It’s caught on.”

Grace didn’t know how to respond to this. She was so overcome with the existence of a smuggling ring in Hogwarts that she just snorted and said, “Yeah, I suppose it is. Have a brave day, too.”

* * *

It was dull, cloudy Thursday in History of Magic when Grace next saw Cresswell.

To her dismay, he didn’t mention the Smugglers’ Society or anything about their last encounter. He simply scrambled into the seat besides her, and began working on the hag assignment that Sanderson had given them a couple of days ago. Grace had already finished her half of the project, thanks to Regulus, so she spent most of the class trying to decide on what question to ask Binns about his death.

Of course, Binns had long stopped calling on Grace, since it was very clear that every question she had had absolutely nothing to do with history. Never one to be deterred so easily, Grace had taken to just shouting her questions out loud. This usually resulted in a couple of House points being taken away, but she was always sure to earn them back someway or the other so her fellow Slytherins couldn’t hold it against her.

“Professor Binns!” Grace called out.

Half the class groaned. The other half remained asleep.

Binns’s lecturing faltered and he let out one long, ghostly sigh. “What is it?”

“Was it some sort of creature-related incident that resulted in your death?” Grace brightened, an idea coming to mind. “Oh—was it a stinging fire-scorpion, sir?”

“No,” Binns said flatly. “I suppose it would be too much to ask if you had any question related to the troll wars?”

Grace shrugged at this, and Binns, very quickly, resumed his lecturing about some or the other raided village. Bored, she glanced at Cresswell’s side of the desk, just to see how far he’d come along on his half of the essay.

She frowned as she saw that he wasn’t very far along at all. He had only barely gotten past the section on appearance, and he still had a whole bit on magical abilities to write about.

“You alright?” Grace probed. “I know you write slow, but you’re usually not _this_ slow.”

“No,” Cresswell said flatly, laying down his pen. “I just can’t concentrate.”

“Oh, well, it’s just a little more. We can skip over writing down magical abilities and just talk about it, if that makes it easier? Plus, I doubt Sanderson—” Grace’s words faltered and stopped completely as she caught sight of the dejected look on Cresswell’s face. He looked utterly put-out. “Er—what’s the matter?”

“Remember how I told you about the—” his voice dropped to a shadow of a whisper, “—Smugglers’ Society?”

“Of course I remember that,” Grace said. How on earth could she forget something like _that_?

“It’s just that…I’m in a bit of trouble with my assignment, and I could use some help, but…oh, what’s the use?” He picked up his pen and glumly resumed writing.

Grace bit the inside of her cheek. She’d been thinking about Cresswell’s secret club for the past couple of days, hoping that he might talk to her about it outside of class or something, but he hadn’t. They never saw each other out of class to begin with, so why should this have changed anything?

It wasn’t like they were friends or anything.

But weren’t they? Grace had thought they were. Sure, they mostly grumbled at each other, but Cresswell had helped her catch up with some of the new Defense spells. They spent nearly every History of Magic class sitting together, trying to get a leg up on their work. Not to mention, she had sort of helped him out with that whole Yaxley situation, right?

Perhaps they _were_ friends, and Cresswell had only said what he did to throw Anita off. Besides, even if they weren’t, Grace ought to offer some help, right? If Cresswell really needed it?

“I’ll help,” she said carefully, after a moment, “if it’s something I can even help with it.”

“Really?” Cresswell said, squinting at her. “But you don’t even know what it is.”

Grace shrugged. She was always ready to help out with a ridiculous plan. “What is it you need me to do? I know some of the secret passages at Hogwarts, if you’re trying to sneak in contraband from outside—”

“No, no,” Cresswell said. “It’s nothing like that.” He sighed heavily and began rummaging in his bag. “It’s just that I haven’t been meeting my quota these past couple of weeks, and I’m in danger of being kicked out.”

Grace’s brows rose. “Oh, so you want me to blackmail—”

Cresswell’s eyes met Grace’s. “Don’t you think I’ve already tried that?”

“How’d it go?”

“They knew it was me,” he grumbled. He pulled out a thick wad of lined paper from his knapsack and settled it on top of his Defense essay. It was riddled with lines and scratch-outs. Grace craned her neck at it curiously, but she couldn’t quite decipher Cresswell’s chicken-scratch. “If you could help me with _this_ , that’d be great,” he said, pointing at the papers. “You see, we’re each assigned a couple of pure-bloods to swindle, since pure-bloods pay _way_ more than necessary for dumb things—”

“Hold on,” Grace protested.

“It’s true,” he said flatly. “Mills sold Macmillan an eraser and a pencil for fifty-three Galleons.”

“Macmillan’s not the brightest Flitterby in the bunch,” Grace said matter-of-factly. “He believes anything you say so long as you sound confident.”

“Well, that’s too bad for me, because I got stuck with Audrey Abbott, and she’s a real clever clogs. Every time I bring up pens or pencils, she starts rattling off about the _environment_.” Cresswell scoffed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I dunno,” Grace said honestly. “But if she’s so much trouble, why don’t you try selling your products to someone else?”

“No, don’t you see? I was _assigned_ Abbott. It’s got to be her, but she’s bloody ruining my life,” Cresswell complained, throwing his head onto his stack of papers. “Every morning, I sit at the Hufflepuff table, wondering how on earth I’m going to wear her down. I thought maybe if I started sitting near her and showing off all the stuff we’ve got in stock—you know, writing with pens, pulling out my graph paper—she’d be interested. But now she thinks I _like_ her or something.” He shuddered at the thought. “I can’t live like this, Potter! It’s enough to drive a man mad.”

“You’re already mad, Cresswell.” Grace’s eyes flickered at the papers that peeked out from under his elbow. “So, what exactly do you want me to do about this? I’ve never spoken to Abbott before. I doubt she’d listen to me.”

“We’re going to pull a two-man con,” Cresswell said, pulling his head up and cradling it in one of his hands. He used the other to pat his papers. “I’ve written a script.”

“A script?” Grace repeated skeptically. “Are we putting on a play?”

He stared at her, unimpressed. “No,” he said slowly. “You’re going to pretend to be dissatisfied with wizarding implements, and then I’m conveniently going to come along and help you.”

“Help me? How?”

“It’s all in the script,” Cresswell said confidently. He pushed the papers over to her. “You can memorize your lines throughout the day, and we’ll get Abbott after dinner, while she’s heading back to the Hufflepuff common room.”

“Er—okay?” Grace said, taking the papers. Her eyes flitted over the messy handwriting. “I suppose I’ll just read this during lunch?”

“Sure,” Cresswell said, picking up his pen to resume his essay on hags. “Thanks for this. I don’t want to let the others know I’m at a loss.”

“It’s no problem,” Grace said, stuffing the papers into her knapsack.

They settled into a companionable silence after that, Grace wavering between paying attention to Binns’s lecture and scribbling in the margins of her notes. She only stopped when she was hit with a realization:

“Hey,” Grace said, “you said you’d all been assigned some pure-blood to swindle. Who’s been assigned to me?”

“No one.”

Grace frowned. “No one? Really? That’s hardly fair.”

“You’re telling me you _want_ to be cheated out of your money?” Cresswell said dryly.

“Well, no…but…how come I’ve been excluded?”

“We thought it’d be too much trouble.”

“Too much trouble?” Grace said. “ _How?_ ”

“Apparently, last year, your brother spent a ton of money buying up markers from one of ours. The very next day, all the tables in the Great Hall had been scribbled onto, and it took a while for professors to figure out how to vanish it, because it’s not normal ink.” Cresswell made a face. “Your whole family’s been blacklisted ever since.”

Somehow, this didn’t particularly surprise Grace.

“Not to mention,” Cresswell continued, “it’s policy to stay clear of Slytherins unless told otherwise.” He grimaced. “Most don’t really like it when Muggle-borns come up to them and start shoving things in their faces.”

She sighed. This didn’t surprise her, either.

* * *

After dinner, Grace met with Cresswell near the stairwell. She had, with some great difficulty, managed to decipher Cresswell’s writing. But as she got to reading, she realized that this wouldn’t work unless Abbott was dumb as a pile of rocks, which she wasn’t because Cresswell had told her as much.

“Cresswell, I’ve got serious issues with this script,” Grace said in greeting. She lifted up his papers. “No one with even an ounce of sense is going to buy this.”

“They will if you act convincing,” Cresswell insisted. “Now, come on, Abbott’s gone to the loo. We can cut her off on her way back to the Hufflepuff common room.”

Before Grace could say another word, Cresswell had latched onto her wrist and pulled her across the empty hallway, towards the girl’s bathroom. They stopped just at the curve of a corridor. Grace peeked around the edge, and caught sight of a young girl with a round face and locks the color of honey making her way out of the bathroom.

“There she is,” Cresswell said. “You ready?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts!” Cresswell hissed, pushing Grace forward. “Go, before we miss our chance!”

“Alright, _alright_ ,” Grace said with equal annoyance, moving forward. “But just so you know,” she whispered fiercely, turning around, “I could have come up with a better plan.”

“We’ll do your idea next time, okay? Just stick with the plan now.”

Grace harrumphed in approval and stepped forward. As soon as she caught Abbott in her periphery, she let out an enormous wail, pulling out one of her quills from her bag and waving it about fanatically.

“O, woe is me!” Grace howled.

Abbott started, whirling around. “What the—is that the Bloody Baron?”

 _Bloody Baron?_ Did she really sound so bad? Grace bit back the urge to fire a retort, and instead flounced over towards Abbott. “Ah, a fellow learner! Hark, dear comrade, will you listen to my tragic tale?”

“What the bloody—”

“Look upon my quill!” Grace said loudly, overpowering Abbott’s voice. Several ghosts had begun gathering nearby, tittering. Amongst them was the Fat Friar, who was hovering about with a large smile on his face. “At first glance, it seems the very epitome of strength, does it not?”

Grace ran the large feather under Abbott’s nose, who swatted it away. “Potter, what are you doing—”

“And yet!” Grace continued. “The more acquainted you grow with the dastardly quill, the more you will realize how frail it is.” Here, Grace added a very theatric gasp. Abbott stared at her stonily, arms crossed over her chest. “’Tis a fragile thing, this quill—”

“Look, I’ve got to go—”

“Wait!” Grace started, stepping in front of Abbott’s way and eliciting an irritated groan from the other girl. “Gaze upon the weak countenance of this here quill! See how easily it snaps under the pressure of my hand.”

Grace took the quill between her hands and bent it. Unfortunately for her, it was rigid as bone, and barely curved as she applied pressure. “Er—hold on—” Grace began, glancing worriedly at Abbott, “—let me just….”

She placed the quill over her knee and tried to twist it, but it was more durable than it seemed. Quill-manufacturing companies must be adding some sort of reinforcement spell to these things, because Grace refused to believe that birds were flapping about with feathers stronger than steel.

“Oh, look at that!” Grace said, giving up and throwing the entire, unbroken quill over her shoulder. “It has snapped from the smallest strain. Truly, the quill is the weakest of writing implements.”

The Fat Friar gasped audibly. Several ghosts chattered behind him about this development.

Abbott pointed to an area behind Grace. “Potter, the quill is right there, and it’s—”

“Now what shall I do?” Grace cried out, throwing a hand over her forehead. “I am bereft of an adequate writing instrument, but must finish a sixteen-inch essay for Professor Binns by tomorrow morning. What to do?”

“Oh, dear me,” one of the ghosts whispered to her friend, “truly a predicament.”

“Potter—”

“Fear not, good student!” Cresswell shouted from the other end of the hallway, appearing with a packet of brightly colored pens. He ran over to where Grace stood.

Abbott gaped at him. “Cresswell? Oh, I should have known—”

“Look upon this here pen,” Cresswell said. He kneeled down and took out a sleek, turquoise pen, offering it up to Grace with both hands. “It is the mightiest thing in the land. No quill could hold a candle to the reliability of the pen—”

“Cresswell, enough is enough!” Abbott said, stamping her foot. She angled a vicious glare at Cresswell. “I’ve had it with you and your blasted pens! I don’t want one. I’ve read that plastic isn’t good for the environment, and I’ve already got plenty of quills—”

Cresswell rose. “C’mon, Abbott, just one pen. I’ll give you a discount, too—how about, erm, twenty Galleons?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Abbott said. “I—no—I’m done with this. I can’t believe you even wrangled her—” Abbott looked pointedly at Grace, “—into this.”

“Wait, Abbott, _please—_ ”

But Abbott was already hurrying along the hallway. As soon as she reached the end of the corridor, she disappeared around the corner. Cresswell threw down his pen in despair.

“Tough luck,” Grace said, clucking her tongue.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” Cresswell moaned.

“Simply a marvelous performance!” the Fat Friar said exuberantly, floating down closer to the two students. Several other ghosts nodded their agreement. “The drama, the twists, the turns—it was _riveting_. Tell me, are quills truly so flimsy?”

“Er—” Grace glanced at Cresswell unsurely, “—sometimes?”

“I never knew!” one ghost gasped. “To think we have been misled all this while!”

“Does your character ever finish her essay for Binns?” another ghost asked.

The flock of ghosts drew nearer, and Grace shrunk under the barrage of questions and comments:

“I believe the pen was simply a distraction for the _true_ superior writing implement—the stylus!” one said rather imperiously.

Another brushed against the crown of Grace’s head, and she shivered at the icy contact. “Was this based on a true story?”

“Perhaps,” yet another began haughtily, “the quill and the pen is a metaphor meant to describe declining ideals of traditionalism—”

“We’ve got to get going,” Grace said apologetically, pushing Cresswell forward and away from the babbling ghosts. “Glad you enjoyed our—erm—play.”

“It’s not a play,” Cresswell protested as he was dragged along.

“Most certainly not!” one of the ghosts agreed from afar. “It is _theatre_.”

“Right,” Grace muttered dryly as she pulled Cresswell down a flight of stairs. Thankfully, the ghosts did not follow. Grace glanced at Cresswell, who lumbered down each step with his lips twisted into a glum little grimace and his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Are you okay?”

“Obviously not,” he said. “I’ve got less than two days to make up my fifty Galleon quota, and I doubt Abbott will talk to me ever again after today.”

“What’s so great about your Smugglers’ Society anyway?” Grace asked. “If you’re out, then maybe you won’t be so stressed about meeting your quota anymore. Oh—” Grace’s eyes brightened, “—maybe you can start selling Muggle things on your own, and that way you won’t have to give the money you make to the others.”

“They’d kill me if I did that,” he said flatly. “The whole point of the Society is to sell Muggle items to magical folk so we can give the money to Muggle-borns who can’t afford all the blasted school supplies Hogwarts makes us get.” Cresswell gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “Who on earth decided a cauldron should be _fifteen_ Galleons?” 

“Oh,” Grace said, shoulders slumping. She hadn’t known the aim of the Smugglers’ Society was to help others. She supposed it made sense, then, that they were being pretty strict about meeting quotas and whatnot. If everyone was allowed to work on their own time, then their goals might never be met.

“It was really fun, you know,” Cresswell mumbled, walking alongside Grace as they trekked towards the bottom floor of the school. “It’s not the conventional sort of club, but I like that it’s not. It adds suspense, sneaking after-hours to meet in the mirror room, and there’s this certain thrill to selling students over-priced goods.” He sighed. “Well—I guess I’d find something new to join. Is Gobstones any good?”

“It’s not,” Grace said immediately. She bit the inside of her cheek and faced Cresswell. “You shouldn’t quit the Smugglers’ Society.”

“I’m not quitting,” Cresswell grumbled. “I’m being kicked out.”

“I mean—don’t give up on achieving your quota,” Grace said. “How about this: I’ll give you the fifty Galleons you need—”

“I can’t just _take_ fifty Galleons from you—”

“No, _listen_ ,” Grace insisted. “I’ll give you the fifty Galleons you need. You can just say you got it from Abbott. Afterwards, we’ll make up the money by selling your Muggle things to other students.”

“So, essentially, I’ll be in debt to you.”

“Sure?”

“That’s worse!” Cresswell cried out. “How am I ever supposed to make back fifty Galleons when no one will buy from me?”

Grace’s eyes brightened. “Oh, I’ve got a good idea! What if _I_ started selling your stuff to some Slytherins?”

“I told you—we don’t touch pure-blood Slytherins—”

“Well, of course they’ll be suspicious if a Muggle-born tries selling them stuff they’ve never seen before. But if I show them some of your graph paper, and tell them it’s been imported from Japan or something, they’ll eat it right up. They don’t know what Muggle things look like, so if I don’t tell them they are, they won’t think they are.”

Cresswell looked at her for one long moment and then broke into a large grin. There was a gap between his front teeth. “That might actually work!” he said. “Of course, the Society would never sign-off on me working with a pure-blood, so this would have to be a secret.”

“Alright,” Grace nodded readily. “I’ll give you the fifty Galleons tomorrow, then.” She made a face. “I might have to borrow some from James, but I should have enough.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You know what? Maybe we are friends.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Glad you’ve caught up, Cresswell.”

“Dirk.”

“What?”

“My friends call me Dirk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Smugglers' Society bit was mostly inspired by this post: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/34/5f/05/345f05d536172c2201d9b6c984bdfec5.jpg
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this very Dirk Cresswell-centric chapter. Let me know what you think! :)


	14. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Sirius is a little too loud and Regulus is a little too quiet. Grace finally understands why.

The final few weeks of first term passed by in a blur. Grace had spent nearly every day trapped in the library with Lily, furiously trying to catch up on material, that she scarcely felt the days go by. It was as thought she’d blinked, and suddenly she was on the Hogwarts Express—that crimson and black train she’d longed to ride since James had—cornering Gamp as he left the restroom.

“I’m telling you,” Grace insisted, waving two packs of what Dirk had told her were _drafting compasses_ , “these are straight from Brazil, guaranteed to get you through Astronomy with an O. Those Castelobruxo students are wicked smart, and part of it is thanks to these.”

Gamp squinted at the compasses. “But _how_?”

“C’mon, Gamp, I’ve seen your circles. They’re all—” she wiggled her free hand, “—misshapen and wonky. I bet Sinistra gives you a P just because your charts are so hard to read.”

Gamp pursed his lips. “If you’re just going to insult me—” He made to move.

Grace stepped in his way. “Insult?” she said, as though the very thought was unconscionable. “I’m not _insulting_ you, Gamp! I’m merely…pointing out areas that could use some improvement.” Again, she flashed the compasses. “And _these_ are what can help you improve. You pop the tiny pencil in the hook, and stick the metal bit on your parchment. Twirl it around, and—boom!—you’ve got yourself a perfect circle to represent Venus.”

“They’re really used by Castelobruxo?”

Grace nodded. “Would I lie to you, Gamp?”

He seemed very unsure about this. “Er—”

“No,” Grace said easily. “The answer is no, I would not lie to you about this.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, and seemed very relieved by Grace’s supposed candor. “Alright, then. How much are they?”

“Fifty Galleons,” Grace said easily.

Gamp’s face fell once more. “Well…I don’t have enough on me—”

Grace frowned. “Merlin, Gamp, if you can’t _afford_ it—”

“I never said that!” Gamp said hotly. “Of course I can _afford_ it. I’ll just have to wait till I’m home to get my allowance. I can owl you the money during holiday.”

Grace pretended to give it a _lot_ of thought. Of course, she was absolutely going to agree with whatever conditions Gamp had. Gamp was the only Slytherin first-year she knew of who was thick enough to fall for the scheme she was pulling. She could approach Blishwick, but Regulus had told her the blue-eyed boy was a lot cannier than he let out. She didn’t dare approach Wilkinson, Rosier, or Yaxley, since they all thought low of her. Her dorm-mates were out of the question for similar reasons.

So, it was Gamp.

“Alright, _fine_ ,” Grace said, shoving the compasses into her bag. “I’ll owl you the goods once you send me payment. Okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded, and seemed over the moon about the deal. “Merlin, fifty Galleons ought to be a steal. I imagine those Castelobruxo students are paying a fortune.”

“Yeah,” Grace said dryly. “Well, pleasure doing business with you, Gamp. I best be off. By the way, you’ve got a bit of toilet paper stuck to your shoe.”

“Huh?” Gamp said, and looked down.

There was, predictably, nothing stuck to his shoe, but Grace took the opportunity to turn on her heel and whizz off to whatever compartment Sirius had pulled Regulus into. It took her a bit of searching (she accidentally opened a compartment where two sixth-years were viciously snogging), but eventually she passed by a compartment where the occupants were heatedly bickering about the flavor of a bean from a packet of Bertie Bott’s.

She opened the door and found Peter gagging on something—likely the aforementioned bean—while James and Sirius loudly debated over the dry heaving. Remus was very pointedly ignoring the debacle, calmly turning a page in his book. Regulus was shrinking behind Remus, seemingly worried that James and Sirius might subject onto him whatever torture they had onto Peter.

“Hullo…?” Grace said.

James and Sirius’s squabbling faltered. Regulus nearly jumped out of his seat in relief. Remus’s eyes flickered up for a moment. Peter continued to choke.

“Ah, Grassie,” James said rather magnanimously, pulling her into the compartment and seating her besides him, “perhaps you can settle this little issue of ours.”

“First of all, _stop_ calling me that,” she said, glowering at him. “Second of all, are any of you going to help Peter?”

“He’s fine,” Sirius said lazily, moving forward to thump Peter on the back.

Peter immediately spat out chunks of what Grace assumed _used_ to be a dark, dull green bean. Peter let out one great shuddering breath and said, “Can’t we do something else?”

Regulus nodded in support.

“What even _are_ you doing?” Grace asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” James said.

Grace stared at him, flabbergasted, and very seriously began to consider the possibility that James had been adopted.

Remus sighed and snapped his book shut. “They’re picking out the nastiest beans they can find from—” he pointed at the half-empty packet of Bertie Bott’s lying on the floor, “— _that_ and trying to guess the flavor without tasting it themselves.”

“And…you have Peter taste it, so…?”

“So we can figure out what the flavor is based on his reaction,” James said. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Grace repeated dryly.

She locked eyes with Regulus in the seat opposite her own. He’d been stuck in here for the past hour, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d managed to survive the chaos that inevitably occurred whenever James and Sirius were together. She quirked a brow at him. _Save me_ , he mouthed to her.

“Sirius and I can’t agree on what the latest bean was,” James continued, nodding at the small bits of green that Peter had spat out. “ _I_ think it must be vomit—”

“Definitely not,” Sirius interrupted. “If it was vomit, he would have spat it out immediately. It must be bogey-flavored—”

“Are you _daft_?” James started.

“Are you _mad_?” Sirius said just as quickly.

“I’ve got to find smarter people to hang out with,” Grace murmured.

“You and me both,” Remus sighed.

Regulus reached down for the packet of Bertie Bott’s and began scanning over the back. “It says here they have a bogey-flavored bean in the packet, but not a vomit—”

“What?” Sirius said, twisting around. “How are you finding this out?”

Regulus waved the pack. “All the flavors are listed on the back, underneath the ingredients. They do this with every packet,” he said flatly.

“Really?” James said, taken aback. “Well, that sort of just takes the fun out of it, doesn’t it?”

“They’ve _got_ to do this, in case someone’s allergic—”

“The game’s ruined now,” Sirius groaned, slumping in his seat. “What’s the point of guessing when the answers are right in front of us?”

“So we _can_ do something else, then?” Peter said, a touch of hope coating his words.

“But what?” James mused. “Nothing can beat the thrill of Predict the Pustule—”

“Merlin’s balls,” Remus said. “Could you _please_ stop calling those beans _pustules_? It’s absolutely disgusting—”

“I didn’t know you were so squeamish, Moony,” Sirius teased.

Grace looked back to Regulus, who was curiously reading the title cover of Remus’s book. She nudged at his foot with her own, catching his attention.

“What?” he asked, looking up.

“Guess,” she said, smiling.

He rolled his eyes. “You—I dunno—high-fived the Giant Squid as the train was leaving the station.”

“Hey, that’s a good idea. I’ll try it when we get back,” she said jokingly. “But, no—I conned fifty Galleons out of Gamp—”

“You did _what_?” James said, turning to her with lit eyes. “Have you got some sort of side business going on, Grace?”

“No,” she said immediately.

Perhaps she had said it too quickly, though, because James didn’t seem to believe her in the slightest. “As your older brother,” he said, chest puffed out, “I should be getting a fifty percent cut of whatever profits you pull—”

“ _Why_?” she said. “Why in Godric’s good name would I ever give you anything?”

“Because I taught you everything you know, of course.”

“You taught me what a git looks like for sure, but—”

“Oh, _ha, ha_ ,” James said very sarcastically. “You know what, Grace? I reckon I taught you that very joke.”

“I reckon you’re going to be thrown out the window if you keep this up.”

James opened his mouth to fire back his own retort, but Regulus warily cut in, “You two aren’t going to act like this when you come over, are you?”

Grace’s eyes flickered towards Sirius rather worriedly. She hadn’t informed him that she’d disregarded his instructions entirely and gone ahead and told Regulus she would absolutely, one hundred percent be coming to his uncle’s for holiday. She didn’t think he’d be particularly _upset_ about this, but, still—with Sirius, you could never be sure what to expect.

But, from the nonplussed expression on the older boy’s face, it seemed that Sirius didn’t care in the slightest. Perhaps Regulus had already tipped him off.

“Way to ruin the show, Reg,” Sirius sighed.

“You’re going to _theirs_ for holiday?” Remus said with heavy interest. “How’s that going to work, exactly?”

“We’re going to their _uncle’s_ ,” James corrected. He glanced at Sirius. “He’s a traveller, right?”

Regulus answered for Sirius: “Yes!” he said brightly. “Uncle Alph’s got a whole attic with things he’s collected—”

“Yeah, and he doesn’t give a rat’s tail about what we get up to,” Sirius cut in, “which is what makes him the absolute best adult in the world.”

James nodded his approval.

“We’ll be there at noon. When will your parents drop you off?” Regulus asked, eyes dancing between James and Grace eagerly.

Grace cocked her head at this question. She didn’t really write to her parents very often (although the reverse of this was not true), preferring to tell them about all she’d gotten up to in person. A natural consequence of this was, of course, that she’d neglected to tell them she’d been invited to a friend’s. But surely James would have told them, right?

Grace and James both looked at each other.

“Er—” they two started.

“What?” Sirius said, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

“Well,” Grace shifted, “I didn’t actually _tell_ Mum or Dad yet.”

“Damn,” James muttered. “I thought you’d already written them.”

“I thought _you_ would have told them,” Grace said. “You write them every day.”

“Why would I tell them when I thought you already had?”

“So _neither_ of you have asked your parents yet? Merlin, that’s so typical,” Remus said, biting back a laugh. “I love it.”

James scoffed. “It won’t be hard or anything. Grace and I very rarely want the same thing. When we do, Mum and Dad bend over backwards to get it. Besides, they _met_ Sirius during—”

Sirius let out a large barrage of coughs, and glared viciously at James.

“—met him when they stopped by to pick me up for Easter,” James fixed smoothly.

Grace’s eyes flew to Regulus, who was staring at his brother with a flat, unimpressed expression. “Don’t worry,” Grace said, bringing Regulus’s gaze to her. “We’ll definitely be there by noon.”

* * *

Grace and James were already twenty minutes late for their day over at Alphard Black’s bungalow, and it seemed they might be another twenty if their Mum continued to flutter about nervously.

“Oh,” she murmured helplessly, going through James’s laundry by hand, “where _is_ your cable-knit scarf, James?”

“ _Mum_ ,” James whined, “I’m not showing up with that thing rung around my neck. I’ll look like a right pillock.”

Privately, Grace agreed. The scarf Mum was looking for was about five times as thick as any normal scarf. Whenever James wore it, he looked like his neck had been wrapped in a cast. He had, quite valiantly, tried to get rid of it on multiple occasions, but Mum loved that scarf dearly (she thought it looked absolutely darling on James) and would always figure out where it’d gone some way or the other.

“So you’d rather look cool for all your friends instead of stay protected?” Mum said sternly. “Is that it, James? You’re willing to risk pneumonia—”

“I’m not going to get _pneumonia_ —”

“You can tell the future now, too, is it?” Mum quipped, resuming her digging. Her dark eyes brightened as she caught hold of a familiar square of beige. “Aha! Here it is!”

James groaned. “Mum, _please_. We’re probably going to just stay indoors—”

“I won’t hear another word of this, James Fleamont,” Mum said, diligently wrapping the yards-long scarf around James’s neck. James tried wriggling away, but Mum grasped him securely by the shoulder. “It’s frightfully cold outside, and you catch the flu every other year.”

“Yeah, I do,” James agreed, “despite all the scarves and the blankets! So, what’s the point of it all, really?”

“You know, my third cousin thought the exact same thing,” Mum began warningly. “He took a nightly concoction to prevent the spread of a nasty case of shingles, but one day he decided—”

“Mum,” Grace cut in tiredly, bundled up in her own muffler (it was a horrendous patchwork of plaid, but at least it wasn’t as ridiculously thick as James’s), “we’re already really late—”

“Oh, you’re right, you’re right,” Mum said, wringing her hands in the air. She grabbed her own scarf before towing James and Grace towards the fireplace. “I’ll have to apologize to Mr. Black for the delay.”

“ _You’re_ coming, too?” Grace said.

“Well, of course I am,” Mum said dryly, “just to meet the man. I can hardly be expected to hand off my only two children to someone I’ve never met before, can I?”

“It’s only one bloke,” James argued. “What do you think he’s going to do? Bake us into mince pies?”

Mum’s eyes darkened. “You watch yourself, James Fleamont—”

“ _Please_ don’t say my middle name when you meet Mr. Black,” James pleaded.

“Please _do_ ,” Grace laughed.

“I’ll do whatever I please,” Mum said primly. She shooed James towards the fireplace, handing him the pot of Floo powder. “You go on ahead. I’ll follow behind.”

Glumly, James grabbed a handful of powder and stepped into the hearth. He threw the powder down, and just as the usual bright, emerald green flames spurted up, he shouted the name of his destination and vanished completely. Grace followed immediately afterwards, taking care not to get any of the Floo powder onto her clothes.

She whizzed through the intricate channel of fireplaces across the United Kingdom, finally ending up in a simple, brick-and-mortar hearth. She scrambled out instantly, and, for a moment, thought she had said the wrong address, because it seemed she’d entered a florist’s shop.

The sitting area was overflowing with flowers. There were planters full of daisies set up precariously underneath large, white-framed windows, large pots with towering bamboo organized about the four corners of the room, and vases with drooping orchids and lilies sat on top of pretty much every surface available. Grace could barely make out the furniture underneath the mass of flowers. Hesitantly, she began to comb through the maze of plants.

She was just about the call for Dotty when she caught sight of James’s profile, partially hidden by a crop of hydrangea.

She sped on over to him and asked, “Is this the right place?”

James turned to her, and his shoulders sagged in relief. “Must be, if you came here, too.”

“So where’s…?”

James’s eyes swept over the flower-laden room. “Er—Mr. Black?” he called out. “Are you there?”

“Hold on!” a deep voice shouted from afar. “I’m just watering—there are a lot of these blasted things, you see—give me a minute!”

A couple of ficus were roughly separated, and in stepped Alphard Black, a metal watering can clutched tightly in his right hand. He was incredibly tall, head brushing against the tip of the ficus plant besides him, and looked very much like Sirius and Regulus—thick hair that fell down in waves, olive skin, dark eyes—except much older. The lower half of his face had been overtaken by a beard, and there were crow’s feet faintly lining the outer corners of his eyes.

He sauntered over, resting the watering can down on the ground. “Er—” Alphard began, eyes darting between the Potter siblings, “—why do you lot look like you’ve been stuffed into bed hangings?”

“I hate this scarf _so much_ ,” James muttered grumpily.

The fireplace roared to life, and over the mess of plants, Grace could see her mother. “Mum!” Grace called out, waving to her. “We’re here!”

She stepped past a cluster of asters, relaxing when she caught sight of James and Grace before shifting her gaze to the only other adult in the room. “Hello,” Mum said very politely, dusting some stray soot from her robes. She extended a hand to Alphard and smiled. “Euphemia Potter. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Black.”

Alphard grinned brightly, dark eyes twinkling under the endless stream of light that flooded through the windows. “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Potter. Thanks for dropping the tykes off. They’ll be in good care, I assure you.”

His spoke very smoothly, and there was a certain velvet quality to his voice that put Mum to ease instantly. Grace was mildly impressed by this but not at all surprised. Alphard Black, she surmised very quickly, was a man you simply couldn’t help but like. He had an easygoing smile, a certain lighthearted air, a casual elegance that made Grace herself feel that she’d known the man much longer than she actually did.

“That’s very nice to hear,” Mum said. She looked to James and Grace. “You two will be fine, then? Along with—oh, where are the boys?” she asked rather worriedly, twisting around and narrowing in on a pot of begonias, as though Sirius and Regulus might spurt from the soil any moment now.

“They should be here soon,” Alphard said, glancing at a golden watch on his wrist. “Their mother’s probably keeping them.”

“Ah, probably finding _their_ scarves,” Mum said sagely, casting a side glance at James. She turned fully towards her children, and said, “Alright, then, I’d better pop off if I want to make it time to Bathilda’s luncheon. You two are sure you’ll be alright?”

“Yes,” Grace said immediately.

At the same time, James rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Mum.”

Alphard snorted.

Mum pursed her lips. Her eyes flickered to Alphard. “I’ll be back in the evening to pick them up, but—” she cracked a smile, “—if you happen to lose James….”

James gaped at her, aghast. “What? Your own son? Just like that, Mum?”

Grace laughed. “Wicked. Then I’ll finally be an only child.”

“What do you want to be an only child for?” James demanded. “You’d be bored to death.”

“Maybe, but at least I wouldn’t have to put up with your nonsense.”

“ _Nonsense_ —”

“Grace, James,” Mum said seriously, “we do not fight in front of guests.”

“We’re not _fighting_ ,” James protested.

“But aren’t _we_ the guests?” Grace said at the same time.

Alphard let out a great laugh. “It’s fine,” he assured. “They remind me of me and my siblings.”

“Still,” Mum insisted, “don’t forget your manners.” She fidgeted for a moment before asking again, “You’re _sure_ you’ll be fine? Remember, if you want to come home, just call Dotty, and she’ll—”

“We’re _fine_ , Mum,” Grace said, and began pushing her mother back to the fireplace. “Promise. Have fun at Batty Bathilda’s.”

“Grace, you know not to call her that,” Mum scolded.

“That’s what she is, though,” James said. He flapped his arms. “Batty as a bat.”

“James,” Mum said sternly. The effect was lost, though, because there was a terribly fond smile slipping across her face.

“I’m just telling the truth!” James insisted.

Mum shook her head. “Alright, alright. You two have fun. I’ll see you in the evening. Goodbye!”

“Goodbye,” James and Grace chorused.

Mum threw down a handful of Floo powder, and, in an instant, she disappeared into a cluster of green flames. Grace let out a breath of relief and began tugging off her terrible scarf.

“Nice mum you’ve got,” Alphard commented appreciatively.

“Nice? Have you _seen_ this scarf?” James said, gesturing to the atrocity hanging from his neck before following Grace’s lead and untying it from himself. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

Alphard laughed once more. “So,” he said, still chuckling, “how is it you know Sirius and Regulus, anyway?”

“Well, you see,” James began very seriously, draping his scarf over Alphard’s watering can, “it all started when I got this admission letter for a school named Hogwarts. Coincidentally, Sirius got a similar letter—”

Alphard let out a booming laugh. “Alright, I see how you might’ve caught Sirius’s attention. I gather you’re both Gryffindor as well?”

James nodded proudly.

Grace shifted in her spot. “Actually, I’m in Slytherin.”

Alphard’s brows flew up. “Potter in Slytherin? That’s a first. I imagine that’s how you bumped into Regulus?”

“Yeah,” James said for Grace, who scowled at him, “and now she’s gone and corrupted him so he does irritating things, like spread Stinksap on Sirius’s bed—”

“Who?” Alphard cut in, alarmed. “Regulus? Regulus did that?”

“Well, he probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t gotten all that Stinksap on him in the first place,” Grace admitted.

Alphard seemed pleasantly surprised. “Sounds like you lot are having a riot at Hogwarts. Glad to hear Regulus has come out of his shell, too.”

James shrugged half-heartedly. He began making rounds about the sitting area, haphazardly touching some of the plants. “Why’ve you got so many of these?”

Alphard seemed rather taken aback by the question. “Er, well you see—” he floundered for a moment, scratching the back of his head, “—plants are…nice.”

“They’re just nice?” Grace questioned.

“Yeah.” The tips of Alphard’s ears burned red. “Hey,” he coughed, swinging towards the fireplace, “we ought to see what’s keeping Sirius and Regulus. It’s been a while. I’ll just pop open the Floo connection….”

Grace and James watched the older man as he quickly busied himself around the hearth. Alphard took a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the fireplace before taking his wand out and silently waving it over the resulting flames. The shroud of green fire shimmered as Alphard cast his incantation, and Grace could just make out some dour, grey wallpaper from the other end of the portal.

“Hello?” Alphard said cautiously. “H—”

“—THE NERVE,” an awful voice screeched as the connection settled, “TO GO BEHIND MY BACK—”

James jumped. Grace felt the bones in her body rattle from the force of the voice. She reached for James, hand closing around his arm, pulling herself closer to him.

Alphard shifted, covering the span of the fireplace with his body. “It’s nothing,” he told them quietly, but he didn’t seem to believe it himself. He stepped closer to the hearth. “I’ll just pop in and see what might be—”

“—DON’T YOU LOOK AWAY—”

Alphard stiffened and, without finishing what it was he was saying, jumped into the fireplace.

Grace and James stayed rooted to their spot in the sitting room, watching the dancing flames with bated breath. They could not see much; the fireplace in Sirius and Regulus’s home must have been situated in an odd area, because only the dark, gloomy wallpaper and the start of a stairwell could be properly seen from their vantage point.

The shrieking had died down, perhaps because of Alphard, but there were still some muffled voices speaking on the other end. Just as Grace began thinking that the commotion had been resolved, a loud cry of fear ripped through the air.

Grace’s heart pounded away in her chest. The grip she had around her brother’s arm was tighter than a vise.

James grew rigid. “That’s Sirius,” he said, stricken.

“Your own _son_ , Walburga?!” Alphard yelled from the other side.

“He must _learn_ —!”

At once, Grace realized two things—that the shrieking woman was Sirius and Regulus’s mother and that she had _hurt_ Sirius—but before she could realize anything more, the Floo connection was disrupted. The fireplace sputtered out some soot, and the flames arched upwards with renewed vigor. Someone was coming through, and Grace hoped wildly that it wouldn’t be Sirius and Regulus’s mother.

The fire died down, and Regulus, pale and withdrawn and trembling, stepped through. His eyes darted about the room before settling on Grace and James.

“Oh,” he said faintly, not looking the least bit happy to find them there, “you’re here already.”

Before Grace or James could say anything in response, the fireplace came to life once more. From a cloud of ash came a scowling Sirius. His robes were rumpled and his hair was in disarray. His left cheek was a blotchy red, and Grace’s stomach twisted at the thought that his mother was responsible.

“What happened, mate?” James started at once, dashing forward and hovering over Sirius in a manner that very much reminded Grace of their mum.

“S’nothing,” Sirius said briskly, rubbing at his cheek. “Stinging hex—”

“She _hexed_ you?” Grace gasped, aghast.

“Yeah,” Sirius bit, “and guess whose bloody fault it was?” His eyes whipped to Regulus, who had shrunk behind a vase of lavender. “Merlin—can’t you learn to keep your mouth shut—”

“She was _asking_ ,” Regulus said desperately.

“Doesn’t mean you’ve got to tell her anything! Doesn’t mean you’ve got to go and offer up every detail of everything you’ve ever done!” Sirius’s eyes burned. “This is just like what happened with Cissy last—”

“I didn’t mean to,” Regulus said at once. “You know I didn’t mean to—”

“It doesn’t matter what you _meant_ to do, just that you _did_. When’re you going to grow up, Reg—”

“ _Grow up?_ ” Regulus repeated, and his voice morphed from distressed to affronted. “ _I’m_ the one that’s got to grow up? None of this would ever happen if you could just stay quiet and lis—”

“You’re a coward if you think the best thing to do is to just stay quiet,” Sirius spat. “You think everything would be fine if we all just played our part? If we just listened along without raising any complaints? If we just told Mother what she wanted to know? You’re _wrong_.”

“It’s not _that_. It’s that—it’s—you’re _lying_ to her—”

“So what? You expect me to feel bad or something? She’s raving mad—”

“Don’t _say_ that,” Regulus cried out, terrified, as though their mother might be able to hear.

Grace chest grew tighter and tighter with each remark flung between the two brothers. She’d never seen a row quite like this before. Sirius raged like he was a bushfire and Regulus was nothing more than dry kindle. This fight was hostile and personal, and Grace felt awful for just being near it, for just hearing what was being said, because this wasn’t at all how she and James fought. They insulted each other, too, but only so far as the other could take it, and they could each take quite a lot.

The fight that was unfolding before Grace’s eyes seemed completely one-sided, less of a quarrel and more of a vicious attack, but she didn’t know how to end it. She just stood, frozen to the ground, watching with a resigned sort of distress as Sirius and Regulus continued.

“You know what?” Sirius snapped. “ _This_ is why we never tell you anything. You simply can’t be trusted—”

Regulus’s lower lip trembled. “That’s not—”

“It _is_ —”

Just as it seemed that Regulus might burst into tears, the fireplace roared to life once more, and out stepped Alphard. He looked completely fine, not a hair out of place, except for the weary look on his face. He rubbed the side of his jaw, dark eyes flying between Sirius and Regulus, who hadn’t noticed his entry.

“—because you don’t have enough nerve to stand up for your—”

“The problem is that you have _too much_ nerve—”

“Enough!” Alphard said sharply, and the room fell into silence.

Regulus’s mouth snapped shut. Sirius’s lips curved into a deep frown.

Alphard closed his eyes briefly, and ran his hand through his hair. “You two,” he said, pointing at Sirius and Regulus. “Let me talk to you for a moment. Come on.”

Alphard moved around a row of exotic flowers while Sirius and Regulus followed closely behind. The older man only stopped when he came across a barrier of plants that seemed to prevent him from getting out of the sitting room. 

“Er—hold on, let me just—” Alphard moved aside two giant planters, revealing a hallway. “Merlin, I’ve got to get rid of these….”

He disappeared down the hallway, Sirius and Regulus along with him. Grace stared at the shadowy corridor for one long moment before turning to James. She tried, several times, to say something, but found that she didn’t quite know what to say. Her mind whirled with the events of the past twenty or so minutes.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” she said at last, voice torn.

James’s eyes flickered down to her. “What do you mean?”

“Why did—” Grace struggled to find a way to kindly but adequately describe all she had witnessed but came up with nothing. “Why’s their mum like that?”

James blinked. He shifted uneasily. “They’re pure-blood.”

“So are we?”

“They’re _pure-blood_ pure-blood.”

Grace’s eyes grew wide. “What? You mean like the _Notts_?”

“Yeah.”

Grace had only met the Nott family once a few years back, and it was by chance. The Potters and the Notts had crossed paths on the same floor at St. Mungo’s (their son had been meddling with some sort of spell that left his nose as large and green as a cucumber), and the meeting had been icy. Grace’s dad had politely but curtly asked them to move along, and the Notts had responded by requesting their son’s cot be moved to an entirely different floor.

 _We wouldn’t want to lower ourselves by breathing the same air as you_ , was what the mother had said. Grace had found the entire encounter fascinating, because, firstly, the air the Potters breathed would likely always be the same air the Notts breathed no matter what floor of St. Mungo’s they were on, and, secondly, they had been rude before James had even gotten the chance to offend them. Mum and Dad later explained that the Notts thought they were better than everyone else because their family lineage was more ‘pure’ or some bollocks like that. They’d even written a book about it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Grace quietly hissed at James. “How long have you known?”

“I didn’t know it was my job to tell you,” James said defensively. “I thought you knew! You’d have to be daft not to notice.”

“Notice?” Grace repeated. “S’not like I actually saw or heard their mum before today, James! What was there to notice?”

“I mean—didn’t Regulus tell you?”

Grace racked her brains, trying to come up with something but falling short. “No,” she said, frowning. “I think he might’ve mentioned they had high expectations?”

“That’s an understatement,” James scoffed. “They’re as batty as Bathilda—er, well imagine if Bathilda had a temper, and then they’d be as batty as her.”

“Well,” Grace swallowed, “should we tell Mum? Maybe she can do something, like talk to their parents, or—”

“Absolutely not,” James said immediately. “Sirius told me not to breathe a word of it. It’ll make things worse. Their family would be beyond angry if someone else got involved with their affairs. Besides, they’ve got a lot of pull, so I doubt whatever Mum said or did would make a difference; it’d just make them angrier, I reckon.”

Grace’s frown grew deeper. “But—but it’s not _right_.”

James’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right. It’s not, but I dunno what else to do. I always invite Sirius over to ours during holiday, so he’ll have to spend as little time as possible at his, but he can’t keep using the same excuses over and over.”

“Maybe we should leave,” Grace said before she could stop herself.

“Leave?” James repeated in disbelief. “Now? When they need us most?”

Did they need Grace and James at all? It sounded like they needed Alphard to inject some sense and rationality into their household, not Grace and James, who apparently were supposed to stand aside and do nothing.

“I just don’t want to hear anything else we’re not meant to,” Grace said.

“We won’t,” James promised. “Besides, I want to at least talk to Sirius, make sure he’s okay.”

“I suppose, but—” Grace clamped her mouth shut as she heard the plants near the hallway rustle.

Sirius batted away the low-hanging leaves of a yucca plant as he returned to the sitting room. “Merlin,” he complained, ducking underneath some philodendrons that had been strung from the ceiling. “How many more of these is he going to get? At some point, you’ve got to give up and just admit the flower shop owner doesn’t like you back.”

“Sirius!” James called, rushing over to his friend. “Are you alright—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius brushed off easily, lounging by some ferns. He seemed to be back in good spirits. His cheek had been healed, and his grey eyes were bright. “Sorry you had to see all that.” He made a face. “If you want to go, I wouldn’t blame you—”

“Are you kidding?” James said. “Leave you like that? Definitely not.”

Sirius’s face broke into a grin. “Wicked. I was hoping you’d say that. Uncle Alph’s got some spare broomsticks in the back garden we could hop on.”

“Er—where’s Regulus?” Grace piped in worriedly, glancing down the long hallway.

“Oh,” Sirius said, smile faltering. “Uncle Alph’s trying to boost his self-confidence or something.” He rolled his eyes. “I dunno why he even bothers. It’s not like it’s going to make a difference.”

Grace pursed her lips. “Maybe it’d help more if you supported him.”

“Look,” Sirius sighed, “ _this_ is why I told you tell Regulus you couldn’t come over. He simply can’t be trusted with secrets like these.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “He’s my _friend_ —”

“I get that, but you just don’t understand,” Sirius said. He let out a frustrated breath.

“Did your mum find out that you were meeting us here?” James asked. “Or did your uncle manage to smooth things over?”

“Er—no, not really. To the first question. She was asking _why_ we were so interested in coming to Uncle Alph’s at all, and then Regulus started getting nervous, like usual. When he gets nervous, he starts rambling. And when he starts rambling—” Sirius grimaced, “—he lets things slip. He mentioned ‘the Potters’ and ‘holiday’ in passing, and Mother nearly threw a fit—well, I guess she actually _did_ throw a fit. Anyway, she started asking even _more_ questions, and Regulus was about to lose it, so I told her he was talking about how I’d lied and gone over to yours for Easter last year.”

James gaped at him. “Merlin,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you told her that.”

“Well, I hardly had a choice, did I? I couldn’t let her think Uncle Alph was having you lot over. She’d have it out for him.” Sirius shook his head, and his gaze landed back on Grace. “See?” he said rather imperiously. “I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to think lesser of him, but Regulus is a tattle—”

“What?” Grace said, alarmed. “Regulus is a tattle? But he said someone else was—one of your cousins. The blonde one. Narcissa, I think.”

Sirius blinked in surprise. “No,” he said immediately. “She only started tattling because Regulus let it slip that she was talking to some Muggle boy down the street. Her parents threatened to disown her over it unless she got betrothed immediately. Now she’s all bitter about it and has it out for him. I swear she watches Regulus like a hawk, just waiting for him to make a mistake.” Sirius let out a humorless laugh. “That’s sort of in vain, isn’t it? Like Regulus would _ever_ make a mistake.”

Grace was at a loss for words. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she silently traced over the fibrous patterns in the wood. She’d never witnessed what it was Sirius was describing. Regulus was rather high-strung, sure, but she didn’t think he’d ever get _so_ caught up in his anxiety that he’d unintentionally betray her. But, then again, perhaps this was because she’d only ever seen Regulus at Hogwarts, not at home with his parents.

Now that Sirius had been brought onto the subject of Regulus, he was having a difficult time stopping. “He doesn’t know when to stop,” Sirius continued with a heavy coat of irritation. “He’ll spend hours and hours poring over his books, practicing this and that until he’s got it just perfect.” Sirius gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “I think he thinks that if he keeps pretending everything’s perfect, it will be. Like if we all—Mother and Father and me—just practiced being perfect every day, we’d be a perfect family or some bollocks like that.”

James’s brows were furrowed. “If he wants you all to be perfect,” he began slowly, “why would he tattle on you?”

“Because that’s what he does,” Sirius insisted. “He’s just—I dunno—scared, I guess.”

Grace didn’t feel like there was anything particularly wrong with feeling scared. “Your mum did sound awfully scary.”

Sirius soured and didn’t speak.

“Grace,” James hissed.

“Sorry,” Grace said softly. “Are they always like that?”

“Sometimes they don’t say anything. Those are my favorite moments.” The words might have come across funnier if Sirius didn’t sound so miserable.

“Sorry,” Grace repeated.

Sirius deflated. “It’s okay,” he said, even though it wasn’t.

“Come on, mate,” James said gently, wrapping an arm around Sirius’s shoulders. “Let’s go to the back garden and get your mind off all this—”

“Alright!” Alphard called out cheerily.

Grace’s eyes snapped to the hallway, where Alphard was towing along a still-sullen Regulus. Alphard beamed down at the small group of children as though the events of the past half-hour hadn’t happened at all.

“What’re you all doing, waiting about?” Alphard said, glancing between them. “You’re free to do whatever you like. Try not to break anything, but if you do, don’t fret. I can probably fix it in a heartbeat. Don’t wander off the property, either. Oh, and if you get lost amongst this mess—” he gestured at the thicket of plants, “—er—good luck.”

Sirius snorted at this before dragging James off down the hallway, presumably to go to Alphard’s back garden to try out the broomsticks. Grace looked to Regulus, who seemed to be trying to melt into Alphard’s shadow.

“Well,” Alphard began, reaching down to gather his watering can. He tossed James’s scarf onto a vase of daffodils. “I’ve got to finish watering all of these. If you need anything, just shout. Hopefully, I’ll hear you.”

With that, he disappeared into a clump of plants. Grace watched his receding form for a moment before turning back to Regulus, silently trying to figure out what to say.

“What do you want to do?” she asked at last. Her voice crept like a cautious cat.

“Sulk,” Regulus responded bitterly. He threw himself down next to an enormous pot, and cradled his face in his hands. “Sorry,” Regulus said, voice slightly muffled. “This is so embarrassing.”

Grace didn’t think anything that had just happened was embarrassing in the slightest. The afternoon had been strange, confusing, slightly terrifying, certainly worrisome, but not at all embarrassing.

“It’s okay,” Grace said in the most soothing voice she could muster. “James and I have had fights, too.”

“I hate fighting with Sirius,” he said mournfully. “It’s just…if he would only _listen_ to them, everything would be fine. He makes it so difficult—always talking back, hanging up those Gryffindor banners…. Merlin, it’d be so easy if he was just—just—less _him_.”

Grace felt this was rather a tall order, asking someone to be less themself, but she didn’t want to upset Regulus any further so she simply patted him on the back and asked if he wanted to go to the attic.

“You said your uncle’s got loads of stuff up there, right? We could go and explore it all. You can tell me where he’s got it all from, and what it even does.” Grace grinned. “I bet you’ve read all about the places your uncle’s gone to.”

Regulus lifted his head, and gave her a slight smile. “Maybe.”

“Great! So, let’s go up there so you can tell me all about it.” Grace hauled Regulus up to his feet and started forward, only to stop. “Er—do you know how to navigate this place?”

“Yeah,” Regulus sighed, surveying the forest that was Alphard’s sitting room. “It should be up here.” He moved forward and pushed away a pot of stunted palm trees, revealing a set of rickety stairs. “Merlin,” he grumbled, swatting the leaves away from his face, “I thought he would’ve gotten rid of some of these by now.”

“Maybe he’s a hoarder,” Grace said. “Or maybe he just finds it amusing when people get lost in his living room.”

Regulus snorted at this, and Grace beamed at him.

“It’s probably the latter,” he said.

Grace followed Regulus up the set of steep, narrow stairs silently. The steps creaked under their weight, as though they had not been used in a very long time. The wall that followed the stairs was decorated with still-life paintings, which Grace thought was rather odd. Besides the Floo powder by the fireplace, she had not yet seen a single thing in this house that would make her think it belonged to a wizard.

“Thanks for sticking around,” Regulus said quietly once they had reached the top of the staircase. “I thought maybe you’d want to go home.”

Grace _had_ wanted to go home, but only because she thought Regulus might have wanted some privacy following the quarrel with Sirius. Now that it was apparent Regulus was glad for her company, Grace was secretly relieved James had convinced her to stay.

“Of course I’d stick around. We’re friends,” Grace said simply.

She was more than a little irritated at Sirius’s complaints about Regulus. She was sure the older brother was just letting out steam, but she felt it was quite hypocritical for him to criticize Regulus so sharply for a few faults. They _all_ had some fault or the other, after all. Sirius himself wasn’t an angel; he was brash and loud and moody and entirely too confrontational for his good. Grace, too, was sometimes snappish and had a rather frustrating tendency to act prematurely or impulsively. Sirius might not have been wrong about Regulus. Perhaps Regulus did lose his nerve, did buckle under the weight of expectation—but, so what? They all had shortcomings. They all had regrets. They all had fears.

If Grace could not tell her Mum or Dad to fix the Black family, then she supposed she would have to take matters into her own hands. The best thing to do, Grace figured very quickly, was to be the best friend Regulus ever had. It would help them both, probably. If Regulus could rub some of his sensibility onto her and Grace could inject some of her gall into him, they would both be better off.

Regulus pushed open the lone door to the attic, and Grace stepped inside, glancing about the dusty room. It was small, cramped, and rather dusty. Boxes and trunks had been shoved near the back, with various paraphernalia—statuettes of magical creatures, glass encasings of colorful feathers, bundles of postcards and letters—precariously stacked on top. There were two large cabinets pressed up against the back wall, each filled to the brim with archaic tomes and scrolls. There was even a slab of stone with hieroglyphs hung overhead.

“Sweet Circe,” Grace breathed, taking it all in. “Shouldn’t this all be in a museum or something?”

Regulus shrugged. “Uncle Alph used to be a Curse-Breaker for a bit. He says he got most of this as thanks for a job well done.”

“Wicked.”

Grace’s finger traced the curves of a small thunderbird figurine before moving on to a wad of unsent postcards. None of them had been written in. Grace supposed Alphard had gotten them as a keepsake of the cities he’d visited. She flicked through them curiously, eyes roving over moving illustrations of the Pyramids of Giza, the Red Fort in Old Delhi, the Court of Lions in Alhambra, the Colosseum in Rome, and so on. It seemed that Alphard had been _everywhere_.

“What’s your favorite thing up here?” Grace asked, setting down the postcards.

She looked up and found that Regulus had settled down near the small, circular window on the other side of the attic. He was peering out of it with a forlorn expression.

“What is it?” Grace said, alarmed.

She came up besides him and craned her neck, looking out. She could just make out the corner of the garden, where Sirius and James were soaring about on a couple of old broomsticks. They seemed to be playing some variation of the game they had played when Sirius came over for Easter.

“They’re flying,” Regulus said with a touch of longing.

Regulus never really talked about Flying class, most likely because he had figured early on that it made Grace jealous to hear about something she was missing out on. But, sometimes, he would mention Quidditch rankings or teams. Not often, but just enough for Grace to know that he had a vested interest in the sport.

Grace leaned against the wall. “Do you want to play? Sirius has probably cooled down. I don’t think they’d mind if you joined.”

“Well,” Regulus started, twisting to her, “would you want to play, too?”

“I can’t, remember? I’m not allowed to use broomsticks.”

“But that’s just some rule your parents made—” his eyes grew wide, “—not that you shouldn’t listen to your parents or anything like that! It’s just…I would’ve thought you’d jump at the chance to use a broomstick.”

She would have. Merlin, even now, her heart burned to go down there and fly and fly and never look back. But it had only been a bit more than a month since her last paroxysm. She didn’t want to risk it.

Grace shifted, and her eyes dropped to the floor. “I can’t,” she repeated.

She knew she was being cryptic, but she didn’t know what sort of explanation to give Regulus that didn’t involve the words ‘rare illness.’ So, she decided that perhaps the best course of action would be to leave out an explanation altogether.

“Okay, well—” Regulus turned around, gaze tracing over the various bric-a-brac Alphard had collected, “—there’s a coin collection somewhere in here if you want to—”

“You don’t want to go out?” Grace said. “You can still play, of course. I wouldn’t mind watching.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Grace, I wanted you over so we can have fun together, not so I can have fun while you watch.” He reached over to one of the trunks. “Come on, I think the coins should be in this one.”

As Grace helped Regulus pry open the ancient trunk, she was hit with her third realization of the day: Of course Regulus never told her about the strange, tense situation that was his family. After all, Grace had not exactly been forthright with him.

* * *

It was a snowy Christmas day when Grace dove behind a bush of dittany to avoid being hit by a snowball James had lobbed. Quickly, she patted together a pile of snow in her gloved hands and hurled it back at him. She peeked over the top of the hedge and saw, to her delight, that her snowball had hit him squarely in the chest.

“Take that!” she cried out happily.

James rolled his eyes and brushed the snow off of him. “I still got you more times.”

It was true. Grace’s dark robes were littered with snow. She had managed to shake off most of what had stuck to her front, but the back of her clothes was absolutely caked with snow—to the point where the onlooker might have thought she was a moving snowman.

“I’ll catch up,” Grace promised, diving back down to gather some more snow in her hands.

But before she had the chance to pelt James once more, the backdoor opened up and Mum called out, quite exasperatedly, “Would you two come in already? We’ve got the presents all set up, and Dotty made some very nice hot cocoa—”

“Coming!” Grace said, abandoning her lumpy snowball in favor for opening up gifts.

James was already dashing towards the cottage. Grace followed closely behind, trying to dust off the excess snow that clung stubbornly to her clothes.

“Oh, darling,” Mum said, clucking her tongue as she took in Grace’s appearance. With one wave of her wand, the damp, cold snow disappeared from Grace entirely, and a pleasant rush of warmth enveloped her from head to toe. “You ought to be more careful. You’ll catch a cold rolling about like that.”

“It’s not my fault,” Grace insisted, untangling herself from her scarf and draping it onto a hook. “James started the snowball fight.”

“If you had my skill,” James began very haughtily, grabbing one of the two steaming mugs of hot cocoa from the kitchen countertop, “you could have dodged and avoided getting hit.”

He slurped at his drink loudly, and when he lifted his head back up, there was a mustache made of whipped cream gracing his upper left. Grace stifled a laugh and reached for her own cup.

“Enough about snowballs,” Mum said briskly, herding the children into the sitting room. “Your father’s set up the tree and painstakingly arranged all the presents underneath. Let’s go and—”

At the word ‘presents,’ James had ripped himself free of his mother’s grasp and hurtled himself towards the tall evergreen tree that had been set up in the center of the room. It was strung with fairy lights that changed colors every other second and shimmering tinsel that rotated through the branches of the tree all on its own. The top was lit with a brilliant golden star that cast the whole of the room in a warm glow.

“There you are!” Dad said joyously when he caught sight of them. There were stray bits of tinsel stuck in his unruly hair, and he had no less than four large presents held securely in his arms. “Almost thought I’d have to give these away if you didn’t show.”

“What are they?” James asked curiously, coming to sit by the tree. The base of it was absolutely crowded with gifts. “Merlin,” he said, glancing at the pile, “that’s a lot more than usual.”

“Gracie had quite a few presents from all her friends,” Dad said proudly, shooting her a wink.

“Really?” Grace said, approaching the tree and sitting across from James.

She had, of course, gotten presents for pretty much everyone she’d met at Hogwarts that she could stand to be around—Regulus, Dirk, Lily, Andromeda, Ted, Avery, James’s friends, and even the Prewetts (although what she’d gotten them was not exactly a traditional gift; it was a chewing gum that forced your mouth shut). Except for Regulus, she hadn’t been entirely sure if any of the people she’d met would actually take the time to get her a present, too. After all, she didn’t spend every second of every day with any of them. She glanced once again at at the extraordinarily large pile of presents, and her heart soared at the thought that, despite this, they had all gotten her something anyway.

“Here you are,” Dad said, passing James and Grace two of the presents in his arms. He smiled eagerly at them. “From Mum and me.”

James was already tearing his open. He opened the first, and pulled out a rather large Quidditch jersey with Gryffindor colors. In bright gold the name _Potter_ was stamped on the back, and the number _9_ was stamped on the front.

“Yes!” James shouted, hugging the jersey to his chest, beaming. “You got me my own jersey—thank you, Dad, Mum—”

“That’s actually not my present,” Mum said dryly, nodding to the other parcel besides James. It was just as large as the other one, but thinner. “That one’s mine.”

James ripped the second gift open, and pulled out a horrendous thick scarf that looked very much like the one he had accidentally ‘lost’ at Alphard Black’s home five days ago. James’s shoulders sank, and he looked at the muffler with something akin to sorrow.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Mum said. “Gladrags happened to have the _exact_ same scarf in the very back.”

“Wonderful,” James repeated glumly. Gingerly, he picked the scarf up between his thumb and forefinger and set it aside.

Dad turned his gaze onto Grace and gestured at her still untouched presents. “Go on,” he encouraged.

Grace reached for the bigger of the two presents. She tore off the wrapping paper, but she was much more strategic about it than James, smoothly ripping it off the top and sliding the box out. Quickly, she opened up the box and found it stuffed with a whole slew of Divination products—a guide to interpreting tea leaves, a leather dream journal embossed with her initials, a pack of glittering tarot cards.

“Whoa,” Grace said, glancing up at her parents. “You got me _all_ this?”

“It’s not every day a first-year’s admitted into N.E.W.T.-level Divination,” Dad said, smiling broadly.

Despite the fact that Grace hadn’t been _admitted_ into the course so much as _allowed to observe_ , she grinned back and gave her father an enthusiastic _thank you_. She reached for the second gift, and found that it contained a bundle of five robes, all fashioned with silver or emerald green trimmings.

“I thought you might need to update your wardrobe,” Mum sniffed. “Merlin knows all the other girls in your dormitory likely have customized robes. It’s only fitting you do.”

“Thank you!” Grace said, hugging the robes to her chest and deviously imagining the envious look Myrcella Rosier would have when she wore these next term.

While Mum and Dad opened the presents James and Grace had gotten them (James had gifted an album of unflattering photos he’d managed to snap of their parents throughout the year while Grace had given them a book entitled _How to Deal with Troublesome Children_ , which Dad snorted at), the two siblings set upon the stack of presents underneath the tree. Grace silently gathered all the ones that had been addressed to her.

She went through each one with a meticulous affection. The first present she opened was Regulus’s. It was, predictably, a book, but one that Grace would actually enjoy: _101 Creative Capers to Carry Out_. Avery and Andromeda had both gotten her packages of expensive chocolates. Dirk had sent a book of Muggle fairy tales and a block of fruitcake wrapped in at least ten layers of parchment paper. Ted's present was a parcel of his mother’s brownie brittle. Sirius had gifted her a couple of biting teacups with the explicit instruction to use one on James during the holiday. Remus and Peter had given her some assorted sweets from Honeydukes. The Prewetts, to Grace’s utter chagrin, had gotten her a present that, when she opened it, simply vanished into thin air—ribbon, wrapping paper, and all.

“Clever,” James noted, having finished opening his own presents. He was sitting in a pile of sweets, curiously watching Grace reach for the last of her gifts, a small parcel neatly wrapped in pale pink.

Grace knew on instinct that it was from Lily, given the handwriting on the tag. Gently, she peeled open the present and found a silver planner on the inside. She flipped through the planner curiously. It didn’t shout about missed deadlines or incorrect spelling, so Grace had to assume it was from a Muggle store.

“What’s that?” James said, snatching the pink card attached to the gift. His eyes sped over it. “ _Evans_ got you something?”

“Give that back!” Grace growled, plucking the card away from James. “Of course she got me a present. I got her one, too, as a thank you for helping me with classes.”

James was frowning. “She didn’t get me anything.”

“Why in Merlin’s name would she ever get you anything? She hates your guts.”

“That’s not true,” James protested.

“It definitely _is_ —”

“No, it’s _not_ —”

“No fighting,” Mum said sharply, pulling them from their argument. “Have you two given each other your presents?”

James was looking at Grace like he very much didn’t think she deserved a present, but after a moment, he sighed and procured a hastily wrapped gift from underneath the coffee table. Grace retrieved her own present for James from behind the couch.

James opened Grace’s present immediately, and smiled to himself when he saw the bright gold-and-crimson Chaser gloves within. “Wicked,” he said, and held them up against the jersey Dad had gotten him. “Now I’ve got something that matches.”

Grace opened James’s present quickly, expecting another set of joke wands or a packet of hiccoughing sweets. Instead, she found a stuffed owl laid gently atop a bed of fabric. Carefully, she lifted it from its box. It wasn’t very realistic, but it was soft and fluffy, and Grace relished the feel of it. Its eyes were wide and yellow, and its wings were silver. Occasionally, under the glimmer of the light, the color would sparkle green for just a moment.

The owl toy opened its beak and let out a sleep hoot.

“How’d you get this?” she breathed, eyes roving over the toy.

“I had it customized,” James said. “And then I had Remus enchant it to squawk and whatnot—”

James wheezed as Grace tackled him into a hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said in one breath.

“Take a picture, Monty,” Mum urged. “This is precious.”

“Precious?” James said, batting away Grace as the camera shutter went off. He glowered at her. “That was assault.”

“Thank you,” Grace said again, this time softer and with more sincerity. She held the owl close to her. “I really like it.”

James grinned despite himself. “Good, I hoped so. I thought maybe you could name it Silvie, so we can have Goldie and—”

“Absolutely _not_.”

* * *

Later, when the night was cool and quiet, and all the candles in the Potter cottage had been blown out, Grace crept out of her own room and into James’s. It was right across from hers and was incredibly cramped, but only because James kept it so cluttered. The floor of his room was strewn with ripped wrapping paper and fallen streamers. He’d placed his new presents at the foot of his bed, and Grace was almost certain that he would trip and fall over them the next morning.

“James?” she whispered in the dark, her blanket dragging against the floor. Her new owl was pressed close to her chest. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah!” His head popped up from the mound of blankets and pillows like a meerkat. “Can’t sleep?”

“No.”

His bed was enormous. He moved towards the other side of it, and Grace clambered on, wrapping herself tightly in her quilt.

“I can’t wait to go back to Hogwarts,” Grace said contentedly.

James beamed. “Me either. Dad gave me these pellets that, when you feed them to owls, they make them sing instead of screech. I’m going to give them to the Hogwarts owls first day back.”

“That actually sounds sort of nice.” Grace could just imagine a hundred beating wings bearing down over the Great Hall, the flapping accompanied by sweet chirps and hoots. It didn’t sound like the usual sort of stuff James did. It seemed rather lovely.

“Yeah,” James agreed. “I thought I’d start off the new year with something pleasant, lull everyone into a false sense of security.”

Grace snorted. There was the catch.

“I need to think of a new prank, too,” she said after a moment, “but I don’t really know what. Do you have any ideas?”

“As long as you don’t douse the whole Gryffindor table in stink pellets again, I’m fine with whatever you want to do.” James paused and then added, “Maybe you could spike the Ravenclaws’ drinks with something, give Aubrey a taste of his own medicine.”

Grace was not entirely sure if Bertram Aubrey had ever done anything wrong in his life except, perhaps, exist near James, but she thought the suggestion was rather interesting. She hadn’t yet gotten to use her skill at Potions in any pranks. If she could think of a simple enough potion to brew and if Regulus was willing to help, then maybe she would slip the Ravenclaws something once she was back at Hogwarts.

“Maybe,” she agreed. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” James shifted on his side of the bed, wrapping himself deeper into his blankets. He caught sight of the owl he had gifted Grace and said, “Oh, you brought that with you?”

“Yes.” Grace stroked it tenderly. “I really like it.”

“I’m really good at getting presents, aren’t I?” James said smugly.

“Maybe…but don’t let it get to your head.”

“Have you named it?”

“Yes,” Grace said immediately. “I’ve named it Stubby Boardman—”

“After the Hobgoblins singer?” James said, appalled. “You named that owl after _him_? That’s not very creative—”

“ _You’re_ going to lecture _me_ about creativity? You named your golden owl _Goldie_.”

“It’s a good name,” James insisted, but said nothing more about Grace’s choice of name for her owl. “Well, I’m glad you liked the present. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I dunno—cause it’s not actually real.”

This was true. But it did hoot and squawk like a real owl, and that was good enough.

“No, it’s really nice,” Grace said. “And I don’t need to feed it like a real owl, so that’s one less task on my plate.” She turned to James. “You know? You’re actually a pretty good brother, Jam-Jam.”

“You don’t need to sound so surprised,” he joked. A moment passed and then he added, softly, “You’re a good sister, Grassie.”

She smiled to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Alphard Black has a crush on a Muggle flower shop owner (Nathan). Yes, he keeps buying ridiculous quantities of flowers in the hope he’ll be noticed. No, I don’t take criticism. 
> 
> As usual, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks for the kudos and comments! :)


	15. Saltwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace faces a Boggart that is not a Boggart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I don't have much material for this chapter and the next two (surprisingly, it's the last few chapters that I've got almost completed), so it's taking me a while to bang it out. 
> 
> I also wanted to add a little disclaimer: I know next to nothing about tarot cards. I did some research, looked at some cards, but I'm not at all a professional, so my depiction of tarot reading might be completely off.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

The end of the holiday came and went in a flash, and before Grace knew it, she was back at Hogwarts. Something about the carefree, joyous air that permeated Christmas time had made her feel that her second term at Hogwarts would be much better than her first. It was a new year, and that meant it was time for new experiences. She was excited to see her friends again, to wreak havoc with (and occasionally against) James, to visit the kitchens under the cover of night. She was even looking forward to returning to classes, sure that they would be more fun than work this time around.

Oh, how wrong she was.

As Grace’s first week back drew to a close, she found that her classes were just as boring and laborious as usual. Sanderson hadn’t let up at all, assigning a new project the very first day back, and McGonagall had started students on transforming objects into animals instead of the other way around, which proved to be much more difficult than Grace had initially thought.

The only silver lining of her dull first week back was the fact that she was finally allowed to rejoin N.E.W.T. Divination, on account of the class having moved on from crystal balls to tarot cards.

“Is it useful?” Regulus asked Grace as he walked her to the trapdoor at the top of the North Tower. “I mean—does Vablatsky _actually_ teach you how to See?”

Grace shrugged. “I dunno about that, but I reckon some of the students can See. Your cousin’s pretty good at it.”

Regulus beamed. “You know,” he began loftily, “they say there used to be a lot of Seers in my family. But it was a long time ago, and the art’s supposedly been lost.”

“What?” Grace scoffed. “Your family just _forgot_ how to See or something?” Regulus frowned and opened his mouth, about the retort, but Grace didn’t give him the chance, continuing, “I bet loads of families could predict the future way back when. They probably saw old Anteros coughing—” she let out a stream of exaggerated coughs, causing Regulus to snort, “—said he’d die of Dragon Pox, and were right. It didn’t take a lot to be a Seer back then.”

“You know what? You’re probably not wrong. It’d explain why there were so many Seers back then but so few today, or why the Seers we’ve got usually turn out to be frauds.” He paused thoughtfully and then added, “But there are probably some people who can still sort of See, right?”

Grace considered this. She supposed that _had_ to be true. Otherwise, how else could Andromeda sift numbers from the fog of the crystal ball? How could Avery manage to conjure catastrophic events from tea leaves? How could Vablatsky have written two bestselling books about Divination?

“I guess,” she agreed. “But I bet it’s all just snippets. I don’t think anyone can _really_ See.”

“You don’t?”

“Nah,” Grace said. “I don’t really think it’s possible. Knowing the future would be too much for any person to handle.”

“There are books about that, you know. Mopsus—”

Grace made a face. “What-sus?”

“ _Mopsus_ ,” Regulus repeated. “He was a Seer back in Ancient Greece. He thought there might be levels to Seeing: there were people who could get glimpses of the future but didn’t have control over what they saw, people who could get direct answers to their questions when Seeing, people who got clear-cut visions but were driven mad by the power—”

“Why do you know so much about this?” Grace cut in as they neared the lean ladder that led up to the Divination classroom. “I didn’t think you’d like Divination, since it’s not very, you know, _real_.”

Divination relied on guesswork and, perhaps, some sort of innate talent. You couldn’t just crack open a book and instantly know how to See.

“I think it’s just difficult to understand,” Regulus corrected. “A lot of branches of magic are like that. It doesn’t mean they’re not real. Besides, I was wondering if I should take Divination as an elective in third year. Since you’re taking it, I thought I’d ask.”

“You want to take Divination?” Grace said, brows lifting. This changed things. “You should definitely do that, Regulus!”

He frowned. “But if you don’t _learn_ anything—”

“Sod learning!”

“Grace,” Regulus said disapprovingly.

“It’s still an interesting class,” Grace insisted. “I might not have the gift, but I still learn all the ways people can See. You should take it as an elective when it’s time. I’d take it, too! We could be partners!”

Regulus weighed this in his mind. “Alright, I’ll take it if I have room.”

“Room?” Grace repeated. “What else are you planning on taking?”

“I dunno. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes for sure, but—”

Grace blanched. “You’re going to take _boring_ classes? What about Care of Magical Creatures?”

Regulus grimaced. “Animals don’t like me much.”

“But you’ve got your kneazle. You have a pet, Regulus.”

“Cliodna doesn’t like other animals either,” Regulus sniffed, “which is why we get along so well.”

“I—wait—” Grace glanced up at the ladder, “—okay, we’ll pick up this conversation later. I can’t let you take a bunch of hard, boring classes. You’ll burn yourself out!”

“I could join the Quidditch team, too?” he suggested more to himself than Grace. “To let off steam.”

Grace gaped at him. “So you’re just going to push yourself to the mental _and_ physical extreme? Regulus, you’ve got to have _fun_.”

“That’s what books are for,” he said matter-of-factly.

Grace stared at him for a moment before shaking her head and reaching for the rungs of the ladder. “I’ll sway you to my side at dinner, okay?”

Regulus rolled his eyes but nonetheless agreed. “Okay.”

He turned on his heel and headed back down the flight of stairs. Grace climbed up the ladder steadily, and pushed open the trapdoor. There were a few students in as always, but Vablatsky was absent. Grace hefted herself up and walked steadily to her table in the corner of the class.

Ted brightened upon seeing her. “Hey,” he greeted, “you’re back! How’ve you been?”

“Yeah!” Grace grinned. “I’m right as rain. I’m glad I’m back. I’ve missed this class dreadfully.”

It was true. She never quite knew what to expect with Divination, but she always knew it would be entertaining. Between Ted and Andromeda’s chatter, the Prewetts’ antics, and Avery’s snark, there was _always_ something enjoyable for Grace to immerse herself into.

“And we’ve missed you dreadfully,” Andromeda said, smiling. “It’s been awful boring.”

“Boring?” Ted repeated. “Did you forget how the twins set their crystal ball aflame the Friday before holiday?”

Grace’s brows rose. “How—”

“Oh, dear,” Vablatsky said, stepping out from the back door. She blinked owlishly at the crowd of students in her classroom. “I really ought to get that clock fixed.” The Prewetts snickered at their table as Vablatsky crossed to the center of the classroom. “Well, I’m glad you’re all here. You had a good break, I trust?”

Several students shrugged. No one said a word.

“Very nice,” Vablatsky nodded absentmindedly. “I’m sure you all know what topic we’re starting on today?” Her lips spread into a bright, pleased smile. “Tarot reading! As you’ve all learned the art under my care these past four years, I’m sure you’re well prepared to start some practical readings. But it might be best to go over some basics…”

“Hey,” Andromeda whispered. She was leaned closer to Grace, her dark eyes flickering down to the younger girl. “I want to talk to you, ask you a question—if that’s okay.”

If Ted noticed how strange it was that Andromeda was murmuring to her, he certainly didn’t show it. His gaze was fixed steadfastly on Vablatsky, silently nodding along to whatever it was she was saying.

Grace’s eyes flitted over Andromeda anxiously. She knew, instinctively, that this was about that faraway night when Andromeda had rushed her to the Hospital Wing. She and Andromeda had never actually had a moment to sit down and properly discuss it.

“Er, yeah, ‘course,” Grace started, feeling very much like her stomach had been replaced by a stone.

She tore her eyes away from Andromeda, and reached into her knapsack, fishing out a loose sheet of parchment. She spent more time than necessary smoothing it out over the table, heart beating maddeningly as she waited for Andromeda to ask her question.

“Remember when you said you shattered your knees on the Prewetts’ soaped-up staircase?” Andromeda said quietly.

Grace dug a quill out of her bag. “Yeah,” she said as nonchalantly as possible.

“The Prewetts spread soap on the staircase on Wednesday, but Regulus said you were only admitted to the Hospital Wing during the weekend.”

Grace’s grip around her quill was so tight her nails were digging into her skin. She scrambled for some excuse to give Andromeda, for some lie—any lie—that might explain this all away. “Er—well—”

“There’s no need to explain,” Andromeda continued with the same soft, calm voice. “I’m sure you’ve got your reasons. I’m just warning you to be more careful with what you say next time. If you’ve got a secret to keep, wrap it in something inconspicuous. Shattered knees is a bit...out there.”

Grace’s eyes met Andromeda’s. The seventh-year didn’t seem the least bit smug about finding out that Grace was hiding something. Andromeda’s dark eyes were tender and tired, and her wild hair was tied up into a messy bun. She seemed sincere, and the mere thought of it was enough to warm Grace’s heart.

“Thanks,” Grace said, returning Andromeda’s wan smile with one of her own.

At the exact same time, the Hufflepuff at Avery’s table called out, “Professor?”

“Yes, Miss Shafiq?”

“Do you want us to do readings in groups of three?” Shafiq glanced at her fellow classmates unsurely. “It’s just—that won’t really work out, will it?”

Vablatsky considered this. “Yes, I doubt there will be time for more than one reading between two people anyway. It might be best to do this in pairs. In which case—” her eyes flew to the Prewetts in an instant, “—we will have to separate you two.”

“What?” Fabian said. “Why?”

“Ah, since you’re so vocal about it, Fabian, I think you can pair with me.” The corners of Vablatsky’s eyes crinkled from the force of her smile. “I’ve been itching to do a proper reading.”

Fabian, for the first time, actually seemed nervous. “Er—”

“And Gideon, you may stay with Mr. Khan.”

Khan didn’t seem the least bit happy about this, but Gideon was absolutely delighted. “Will do,” he said, grinning.

Vablatsky’s eyes flew across the classroom, settling on Grace. “Oh, and of course, we’ll need someone to show Miss Potter the ropes. Perhaps give her an introduction, teach her the theory. Any volunteers?”

Ted lifted his hand in the air.

Avery scoffed from his seat. “You want _us_ to teach? Isn’t that your job?”

“Ah, Mr. Avery, thank you for volunteering,” Vablatsky said.

Avery’s eyes widened. “Hold on—”

“Alright,” Vablatsky said, pointedly ignoring him. She clapped her hands together, and her many bracelets clinked against one another. “If there are no more issues, why don’t we begin?”

Avery’s two partners moved to a different table altogether, leaving him alone near the back. Fabian complained loudly as Vablatsky magicked a chair besides him. A pack of weathered tarot cards appeared mysteriously in her open palm. Gideon pulled Khan as far away from Vablatsky as he possibly could.

“Me first or you?” Andromeda asked Ted, taking out her own pack of cards. The backs were darker than night, with different phases of the moon flickering through.

“You,” Ted said, leaning forward and propping his chin into his open palm.

Grace dug through all the Divination supplies her father had gifted her, finally spotting the unopened pack of tarot cards. She bounded away from her table as Andromeda began shuffling, meeting Avery at the corner of the classroom.

“Hullo,” she greeted, sliding into the seat opposite him.

“Hello,” he said stiffly, lips pursed. “It’s not your fault, of course, but I was hoping to do a real reading.”

“You still can,” Grace said. “You can read for me, can’t you?”

“I meant I wanted someone to do one for me, but—” he hefted a sigh, “—yes, I can do that, too.” He passed some cards between his hands. They seemed to be made of gold. “You were listening to Vablatsky when she did her recap, right?”

“Er—it sort of went over my head…”

“It’s simple,” he assured. “You’ll see. You’ve got twenty-two major cards and fifty-six minor ones. They all represent some aspects of life, the major cards being more important, of course. When you—or the person you’re reading for does—focuses on a question or a situation and picks some cards, the reader should be able to, well, _read_ the cards.”

“And that tells the future?”

Avery weighed this question in his mind. “Supposedly. I don’t think it’s very precise. I feel like it relies on the card-chooser’s focus, their ability to See, more than the reader. The reader is really just the interpreter.”

“Oh,” Grace said, swallowing the information. She tore open her pack of cards and pooled them into her hands. “So, if I want to do a reading, all I need to do is really just understand what the cards represent?”

“Yes, and it’s important you have a connection with your cards—the reader, that is. Each pack speaks differently to the reader.” Avery glanced at the cards Grace was currently going through. “Good, you’ve at least got your own—Merlin’s pants! What _is_ that?”

As Grace passed the cards through her hands, she realized they were cartoonish versions of _real_ tarot cards. Each card was decorated with an adorable drawing of a bear or griffin. All of them were painted in bright pastel colors, and a few had inspirational quotes neatly written in cursive along the borders.

“They’re my cards,” Grace said somewhat defensively.

“Yes, but why do they look like kids’ playing cards?”

“In case you haven’t notice, I _am_ a kid,” Grace bit.

“I—” Avery began and then stopped. He sighed. He shuffled his own cards quickly, and the backs flashed brightly until the filtered light. “We’ll just use mine instead, alright?”

“Okay,” Grace agreed, privately deciding to write her father for a new deck of tarot cards later. “How do we begin?”

“I’ll do a reading for you. I need you to focus on a question for a few moments. _Really_ focus. It can be about anything—something simple, even, like what you’re going to eat for lunch. It can be about a situation, too—where you’re not sure what question to ask, but you’re wondering about something. Whatever you choose, you’ve got to devote your whole mind to it. Narrow in on that question, and all aspects surrounding it.”

Grace shut her eyes tight. A million and one thoughts swirled in her head, like usual. She wasn’t sure what to ask. She wasn’t very curious about the future, truth be told. It rarely took her by surprise.

“You don’t need to close your eyes,” Avery said, faintly amused.

Grace shushed him. “It helps me focus.”

She could hear him shuffling the cards. They brushed against one another, sounding like the pages of a book fluttering underneath someone’s thumb, like the feather-light beat of a bird’s wings.

She ought to ask a very simple question. Maybe just—what was going to happen tonight?

Grace had big plans, and it would be nice to get some clarity about them. First day back, she told Regulus her plan to spike the Ravenclaw table’s goblets with Babbling Beverage. Regulus was all for helping her brew the potion, but after learning that two of the ingredients could only be gathered from Slughorn’s private store room, he quickly decided it wasn’t worth it.

Grace did.

“Pick three cards,” Avery said quietly.

Grace’s eyes flickered open. Her hands wavered over the gold-backed cards. She picked three, all from the middle, without a moment’s hesitation.

Avery flipped over the first of them: a young man with an outstretched wand on horseback. The horse, shadowed and lean, was rearing upwards. The sun shone heavy in the corner of the card.

“Knight of wands,” Avery announced.

The next was a tower of golden goblets, all stacked in a neat pyramid. There was a woman tumbling into them from the corner of the card, a moment away from knocking them all down. Her hair was very long, hiding her face completely.

“Seven of goblets.”

Grace glanced at the card again, counting the cups. There were indeed seven.

“Oh,” Avery said, flipping the last card. He was pleasantly surprised. “You’ve got a major card—hermit.”

Grace wrinkled her nose at the word. What did that mean? That she would end up a hermit before the day was done?

The card itself didn’t look so bad. It was a man on the edge of a cliff. He was holding out a lantern, trying to keep the encroaching dark at bay. There was a full moon above him, but it did little to illuminate the night. Underneath the cliffside, the sea was shadowed and choppy.

“Now what?” Grace asked, surveying her three cards.

“What was your question?”

“What’s going to happen tonight?”

“Tonight,” Avery repeated. His brows furrowed, and he leaned closer to the cards. “Well, this one—” he lifted the knight of wands and showed it to Grace, “—isn’t very surprising.”

“It’s not?”

“No. This is representing something brash and impulsive. That seems to fit with how you conduct yourself.”

Grace chewed at her bottom lip. “What about the others?”

Avery looked at the next card. “Something surprising…maybe scary?” He picked up the last card, but didn’t give it to Grace. He studied it closely. “This one is hard. I think you’re going to learn something. Perhaps a lesson. Or maybe you’re just looking for something.”

“Okay…” Grace said slowly. “So, tonight I’ll do something impulsive, be surprised or scared, and learn something.”

“Maybe.” Avery leaned against the back of his chair. “Or—the cards are just confirming your impulsive nature. The second card could actually mean that you’ll surprise someone else.” He flicked the hermit card away. “And maybe you’ll just end up searching for a missing sock or something.”

Grace’s eyes swept over the cards once more. “Is it—well, I’m planning on sneaking into Slughorn’s private store room later tonight. Do you think it has to do with that?”

Avery’s brows flew up. “Why,” he hissed, “would you tell me this?”

“I dunno,” Grace said, not at all worried that a Prefect was aware of her plans, “to give context to the cards? It makes sense, right? I might stumble upon one of my worst fears—probably one of those Slug Club invitations—while raiding Slughorn’s store room with Dirk—”

“Sweet Circe!” Avery exclaimed. “Stop giving me more detail!”

“But what if it helps the cards?” Grace said. She looked at him. “Should I not do it, then? If something will happen?”

Avery stared at her for a moment and let out a breath. “I don’t think anything will happen,” he said honestly. “And, by the way, you’re the worst thief I’ve ever come across.” He shook his head. “Confessing to your crime before you’ve even gone through with it.”

“I’m an excellent thief,” Grace sniffed, pretending to be very hurt. On the inside, she was positively beaming. If the cards didn’t point out anything significant happening during her raid with Dirk later tonight, then perhaps everything would be fine after all.

Avery did not get a chance to retort to this, because a shout suddenly pierced the air:

“—you absolute buffoon!” Khan cried out.

Grace and the rest of the class turned towards the copper-skinned Ravenclaw. He was standing up, glaring at the cards laid out on the table. Opposite him was Gideon Prewett, who had a rather dark but mischievous smile playing at his lips.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Nasir,” Gideon said much too happily, “it’s simply what I’ve Seen.”

“Just because I’ve chosen the card of Death,” Khan began angrily, lifting the aforementioned card and shoving it in Gideon’s face, “doesn’t mean I’m _actually_ going to die.”

“It doesn’t?” both Grace and Fabian said from across the room.

“It just means,” Khan continued, “that there’s some change coming about. One thing ends but the next begins. It could just be a life-transforming event.”

Gideon nodded along. “Of course I know that Nasir, of course. What self-respecting Seer—“ Avery scoffed at this, “—doesn’t? But, you see, the life-transforming event that’ll come to pass for you...is death.”

“What the blinking hell are you talking about?” Khan exclaimed. “That’s not—how even—“

“It’s life-transforming,” Fabian picked up from his own seat, “because one minute you’ve got life and the next you don’t.”

Khan narrowed his eyes at Fabian. “You lot are planning on murdering me, aren’t you?”

Grace stifled her laugh.

“There will be no murdering in this class,” Vablatsky said. “Anyone who murders another a student will get a T.”

“But if we murder someone who isn’t a student…?” Ted called out, mirth lighting his face.

“Not my department,” Vablatsky muttered under her breath. Her pale eyes returned to the cards in front of Fabian. “Ah, I’ve got it, Mr. Prewett. It seems the cards are telling me that you’ll be receiving a P in this class.”

“Hold on—how can you predict that?” Fabian protested.

“I am not predicting anything,” Vablatsky said. “You chose the cards. I’m merely telling you what they say.”

“That’s bollocks!” Fabian cried out. “How can you divine something you’re in control of? That’s like me saying I predict I’ll be leaping out of my chair in shock.” He did just that and spread his arms wide. “Ah, look—it’s come true!” He twisted around and caught his brother’s eye. “See, Gid, told you I was a Divination prodigy.”

Gideon let out a loud laugh.

Vablatsky didn’t even look up. Her knotted hands traveled over the upturned cards. “It’s simply what the cards say, Mr. Prewett.”

The rest of class turned into something of a one-sided debate between Fabian and Vablatsky. Few tarot readings were done by the time class came to an end, but Vablatsky promised that they would have more than enough time in the weeks to come. Avery advised Grace to get a better pack of tarot cards so she could practicing interpreting on her own next time.

When Grace crossed back to her old table to pick up her knapsack, she found Andromeda in a giggling mess and a light blush dusted across Ted’s cheeks.

“What’d you two see in the cards?” Grace asked, picking up her bag.

Andromeda winked at her. “Shattered knees,” she said, smiling brighter than any sun, and Grace knew it was some secret between the two of them, something they wanted to keep between themselves.

She could understand that.

* * *

Grace blew out the torches that lined the basement of Hogwarts as she made her way to the Hufflepuff barrels. She had long learned that it was easier to slip by Prefects under the cover of dark, although she didn’t much like doing it. It was harder to tell where she was going without even the faintest source of light, and everything in Hogwarts looked pretty much the same. Grace sometimes wished the founders had painted the walls in vivid colors or lined them with bright sparkles, so each part of the castle would seem distinct from the rest.

“Dirk?” Grace whispered as she reached the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. She surveyed the cluster of barrels, trying to spot Dirk amongst them. “Are you there?”

“Took you long enough,” the Hufflepuff responded from directly behind her.

Grace nearly vaulted into the air. “Merlin,” she responded, turning to him with a glare, “how’d you get there?”

“Trade secret,” he said easily. He squinted at her. “Where’s your invisible blanket?”

Grace soured immediately. “I don’t have it,” she said bitterly. “James wouldn’t give it to me.”

“ _What?_ ” Dirk said. “Are you serious? How’re we supposed to pull this off without your magic blanket? The whole reason I agreed was because of the blanket, Grace!”

“I know, I know! I thought he wouldn’t mind giving it to me, but I suppose he’s gotten really protective of it. I think he’s worried that if I get caught with the cloak, then it’ll be confiscated or something. So, then, I just tried stealing it from him, but I don’t know the password to—”

“Never mind all that. What’re we supposed to do now?”

“Well,” Grace started slowly, “we can still go through with the plan. I mean, who’s going to be in the Potions classroom at this time of night?”

“Us,” Dirk said flatly.

“Yeah, and who else?”

“I dunno. Maybe someone else who’s as mental as you.”

Grace pursed her lips. “Okay, look, I’m _sorry_ about the cloak, but we don’t need it.”

“Don’t we, though?” Dirk said. “What do we do if we get caught?”

“Er…” Grace began.

“See! You don’t know.” He sighed. “Where’s your serious friend? I reckon if anyone’ll have a good back up plan, it’s him.”

Grace deflated. “Regulus didn’t want to come. He thinks it’s too risky.”

“Well if _he_ thinks—”

“We can do it,” Grace insisted. “Look, we’ve got our wands—” she pulled hers out of her robe pocket, “—and if we come across anything, we can just, you know—”

Dirk’s eyes widened. “Are you planning on hexing a professor?”

“No!” Grace said immediately.

“Oh.” A beat passed, and then: “Are you sure?”

Grace sighed heavily. “Listen, we don’t need an invisibility cloak. If we get caught, we can make up an excuse, say we were heading to the Hospital Wing or something.”

“Both of us?” Dirk said somewhat skeptically.

“Yeah.” Grace paused and then added warily, “Are you in or not?”

Dirk considered it for a moment and then shrugged. “Yeah. I told you I’d help, didn’t I? ‘Sides, serving detention with Sprout isn’t so bad.”

“We won’t be caught,” Grace promised even though she could in no way guarantee this.

The duo walked along the edge of the corridor that led to the Potions classroom, stopping now and again at even the slightest noise. Thankfully, no Prefects seemed to be on patrol and they managed to reach their destination with relative ease.

Dark and empty, the Potions classroom was rather disconcerting. Grace felt like just about anyone could step out of the shadows and accost them at any moment. Despite this latent fear, she and Dirk pressed onwards, stopping near the very back of the classroom, where the private store room was.

“Lumos,” Grace whispered, and the stone door was illuminated by a washed-out white light.

Dirk lugged at the door, but it was locked. Exasperated, he fished around for his own wand and said, “Alohomora.” There was a click, and Dirk pulled open the door, cautiously peering in. “D’you think he’s set traps or something?”

“Slughorn? Set traps?” Grace scoffed, stepping inside. “I’d sooner believe that Filch wrestled a dragon and won.”

Grace swung the tip of her wand over the cramped room. It was stacked with shelves from top to bottom. Flasks and bottles of seeds, powders, and animal parts lined every inch of the room. Nearly all of them were labeled, but the tags were yellowed and ancient, and the black ink had long faded into something illegible.

“Oh, this is going to be impossible,” Dirk said matter-of-factly, still outside the room.

“It will be if you’re just going to stand there,” Grace said, pulling him inside. “C’mon, help me look. I need crushed angel’s trumpet and dried snakeweed. Snakeweed’s easy. It’s just a cluster of thin white leaves. Angel’s trumpet is a bit more complicated, because it can come in a lot of colors. But, generally, it looks thin and long—like a trumpet.”

“Isn’t angel’s trumpet a flower?” Dirk said, eyeing the containers. His hands ghosted over the various shelved bottles. He lingered on a capsule of spiders’ legs. “Can’t you just get that from a garden?”

“No, it’s highly poisonous.”

“Oh, I see. You’re planning to kill all the Ravenclaws at breakfast, is it?”

“ _No_ ,” Grace said, sparing him a glare before returning to her meticulous searching. “It’s just a sprinkle, barely a milligram, for the Babbling Beverage. It has a property that can make you confused.”

“Is this it?” Dirk asked, reaching for one of the bottles.

Grace’s head snapped up, and she watched with horror as Dirk roughly pulled out a bottles that was hidden behind many others. “Be careful—!”

It was too late. The bottle to the immediate left toppled over the edge, and crashed as it hit the floor. A puff of ash grey powder ballooned around the broken glass.

“Oops,” Dirk said without an ounce of regret. He squinted at the flask in hand and showed it to Grace. “For what it’s worth, I think this is it.”

It was. The petals were a faint pink, dried and finely preserved within the glass container. And while it took a bit of guesswork, it was entirely plausible that the loopy cursive scrawled onto the label said ‘angel’s trumpet.’

Grace scowled at him and grabbed the bottle. “Hopefully no one heard—”

Another door creaked open, and Grace stopped mid-sentence. The light of her wand went out in an instant. She whipped around and settled at the edge of the door frame, peeking out to see if someone had entered. All she saw was a faint light glimmering underneath a door besides the room she and Dirk were occupying.

Grace had always assumed that the door adjacent to the private store room was some sort of storage closet simply because she had never seen Slughorn approach it. It was this very door that was being opened, and, beyond it, a voice spoke:

“Is anybody out there?”

“Is that Slughorn?” Dirk said, peering beyond the doorframe as well, his head underneath Grace’s.

“He _lives_ here?” Grace said, aghast.

“Get out there,” Dirk said immediately, pushing Grace forward. “Distract him before he comes in here!”

“Me?” Grace said, bewildered. “Why me?”

“Because it’s your crazy plan!”

“I—” Grace started and then stopped. She walked away from the private store room. “Okay fine. You know what to search for, right?”

“Snakeweed, white grass, yeah,” Dirk said, and promptly retreated behind the door.

Grace had barely a moment to collect herself when a thoroughly shocked voice called out, “Miss Potter?”

Grace turned around, and froze as she saw Slughorn waddle out of the adjoining room. He wore a tartan pajama set complete with a nightcap, and held a steaming mug of cocoa in his left hand. He stopped just a few feet short of Grace, blinking down at her with a mixture of concern and confusion.

Grace’s eyes fled to the store room behind Slughorn, the door of which was still slightly ajar. She could just barely see Dirk rummaging around in there.

“My dear girl,” Slughorn began, “what in Merlin’s name are you doing here, and at _this_ time of night?” He looked down at her disapprovingly and clucked his tongue. “I’m sure you’re well aware by now that wandering around the castle after curfew is strictly prohibited.”

“Er—” Grace tore her eyes away from the store room and looked up at the old Potions professor wildly, “—right! But, you see, I was…not wandering.”

“Not wandering?”

“No,” Grace said slowly, racking her brains for something that might explain her presence. “I was actually—well, what happened was—it’s quite a funny story, because—”

Something clattered in the storeroom, startling both Slughorn and Grace. Grace’s gaze flew to the door of the storeroom once more, and she found that Dirk had at least found the common sense to shut the door completely.

“What in Merlin’s beard could that have been?” Slughorn wondered aloud, beginning to turn around.

“Ah, who knows?” Grace laughed nervously, drawing the portly man’s gaze back to her. “Probably some of those dungeon rats.”

Slughorn’s eyes widened. “Did you say dungeon rats?”

“Oh, yes.” Grace nodded sagely. “Haven’t you noticed, sir?”

“Er—” Slughorn began uneasily, dark eyes darting to the corners of the semi-dark classroom. He pulled his cup of cocoa closer to himself, as if, at any moment, a rat might rush out and steal it from him. “I’m afraid I wasn’t aware. I’ll inform Mr. Filch about it, of course.”

Grace had no doubt in her mind that Filch would do absolutely nothing, but she nodded along nonetheless.

“Anyway,” Slughorn continued, peering down at her once more, “you were explaining yourself?”

“Er, yes,” Grace started frantically, “I came here because I…wanted to talk to you about something.”

Slughorn blinked in surprise. “You do?”

“Oh, yes. You’re my Head of House, after all. It’s you I’m supposed to come to when I need to talk about things, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“And this particular issue is something I can only really talk to you about.” Despite the relatively calm, doe-eyed look on her face, Grace’s heart was going about a million miles a minute. She had absolutely no plan, and was viciously hoping for some miracle. Having the Bloody Baron pass through the walls and frighten the living hell out of Slughorn would be a good one.

“Er—I see.” Now it seemed Slughorn was the nervous one. He glanced back at his private room longingly. “Well, couldn’t this wait until the morning? I am more than happy to see you then.”

A flood of relief washed over Grace. There would be enough time between now and tomorrow for her to come up with a believable excuse.

Grace was just about to agree when she saw Dirk quietly open up the door to the store room. He slipped out from the gap and caught her eye. His lips broke into a wide grin and he pointed at a bottle grasped in his left hand. Dirk closed the door, and it clicked audibly as it settled back into his frame.

Slughorn made to turn once more “What was—”

“But, sir!” Grace burst, drawing his eyes to her once again. “It can’t wait until tomorrow!”

Slughorn’s bushy, grey brows rose. “Er, perhaps I should get Minerva…”

“No,” Grace said immediately, trying to come up with something that wouldn’t require the Deputy Headmistress making a special appearance. Unfortunately, there was only one thing she could think of that exclusively involved Slughorn and might ease his suspicion. “It’s about—er—Slug Club!”

Slughorn blinked in surprise and straightened up. “Slug Club, you say? Why, has something happened?”

“Er—no, no. It’s just that—” from the corner of her eye, Grace saw Dirk slowly make his way behind Slughorn, sticking closely to the wall, “—I want to join!”

“To join?” Slughorn repeated rather suspiciously. He stared down at her pointedly. “But, Miss Potter, I long assumed you had no interest, seeing as you’ve repeatedly ignored my invites—”

“That was until today, sir!” Grace interjected wildly. Her concentration was split between spinning this ridiculous lie and watching Dirk with a hawk’s eye. “You see, Rosier was talking about it in our dormitory. She’s always _bragging_ about her Slug Club invites and all the select guests you host. I started thinking that perhaps it would be a good opportunity for me to go. And, you know me, sir, when I’ve got a goal, I won’t rest until I achieve it. So, that’s why I came down tonight.”

Slughorn stared at her for one long moment. “You broke curfew to come ask me for an invitation to my club?”

Dirk was snickering silently behind Slughorn.

Grace winced. “Yes…?”

Strangely, Slughorn merely laughed. “Well, of course, there is room for you, Miss Potter. I daresay we could use someone with your initiative.” He smiled at her. “I will, in fact, be hosting a large gathering next month. However, it’ll be less of a meeting and more of a party. For Valentine’s.”

“Valentine’s?” Grace repeated faintly.

“Yes, I’m certain it’ll be a big hit with the students. Madam Puddifoot’s offered to help with the decor and catering, and I’ve managed to convince one of my old students, Arnaud Beaumont—” Slughorn looked at her to gauge her reaction, and Grace feigned an expression of deep interest, “—to come in and give a talk about love potions.”

“I see,” Grace said, wondering if she could somehow induce herself into a coma during Valentine’s Day. She forced her lips into a smile. “That sounds marvelous, Professor!”

“Yes, yes,” Slughorn agreed. “And don’t you worry, my dear. I will make sure to give you an invitation next class. Perhaps when Miss Rosier is looking?” He chortled to himself at the prospect. “That would show her, eh?”

Grace let out a desperate laugh. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dirk travel behind Slughorn before settling behind one of the work benches, well out of sight. A breath of relief escaped her.

“Alright,” Grace said. “Thank you, Professor. I’ll just head out, then, I suppose. Sorry for keeping you up.”

“Ah, no worries, my dear,” Slughorn said. “I was already up reading a fantastic piece in _Potions Quarterly_ about the use of moon dust in the cosmetic industry. But, I suppose, you must know all about that, considering your father?” He peered down at her expectantly. “You know, I can’t recall if he ever made public the secret ingredient used in his revolutionary hair products.”

“Me either,” Grace said, voice rushed. She let out a very loud, very fake yawn. “Ah, it looks like it’s time for me to go to bed, sir. I’ll see you in class.”

Slughorn’s shoulders drooped. “Yes, yes. Goodnight, Miss Potter.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Grace watched the portly man shuffle back to the back room. He closed the door tightly behind him, and Dirk scampered out from under the work bench, joining Grace at the classroom entrance. They left the Potions room together.

“That was the most painful conversation I’ve ever overheard,” Dirk said honestly as he handed her the snakeweed.

“You’re telling me,” Grace grumbled, stuffing the bottle in her pocket. “Merlin, and now I’ve got to go to his blasted Slug Club.”

“It’s not so bad. There are a lot of snacks.”

Grace’s eyes snapped to his. “You’ve been to them?”

“Of course I have,” Dirk scoffed. “Slughorn loves me. Practically falls over his feet whenever he sees me.”

“Then _why_ ,” Grace started, “didn’t _you_ go out to distract him?”

He shrugged in the same aloof manner he always did. “I figured it’d be funnier if you did.”

* * *

Grace left Dirk off near the Hufflepuff barrels before continuing on to her dormitory. She used a winding corridor that looped around the Slytherin common and fed into a different hallway that ran in the opposite direction. It was the only route Grace knew of that wasn’t patrolled religiously by Prefects. It was too distant and unfrequented for anyone to willingly devote time to patrolling it, which made it the perfect path for curfew-breakers to take.

Grace strolled down the hallway absentmindedly. She wondered how she might convince Regulus to help her brew the Babbling Beverage with her ill-gotten ingredients. She hoped he wouldn’t be too opposed to the idea. He seemed rather amused when Grace brought up the possibility of having all the Ravenclaws spout nonsense at breakfast. It was just stealing the ingredients that was the problem.

There was also the small matter of actually getting the potion to the Ravenclaws at breakfast. Grace might need the help of the Hogwarts house-elves for that, but she didn’t want to incriminate them in any way. She sighed as she reached the turn that fed into the next hallway. It was, perhaps, a problem better suited for Regulus to solve.

Grace walked on silently, her torchlit shadow flickering faintly behind her. She only stopped when she heard a relatively loud thump behind her.

“Hello?” she called out quietly.

There was no response.

Grace retraced her steps, and found a broom closet along the bend of the corridor. She pressed her ear against the door, and heard something like shallow breathing, fervent whispers, too low and rushed to sound like anything more than white noise, and the shuffling of limbs. There was someone—or some _thing_ —behind that broom closet, and Grace was thrilled at the prospect of finding out what it was.

Her immediate and only thought was that it might be a Boggart. Grace had never seen a Boggart before, but she had heard many tales about them. Her mother had spun long stories about encounters with Boggarts in her family. _Joy, the conscious decision to be happy_ , Mum had said, _is the only thing that can defeat them_. Grace had never thought this was a particularly difficult task to accomplish. She was nearly always happy, and could be very stubborn about it if she wanted to.

Avery’s prediction ran through her mind. _Something surprising...maybe scary._ Grace leaned closer towards the broom closet, hand reaching forward. Who was she to deny fate? If it was a Boggart, then it was a Boggart. If it was not…then, her worst fear must have been getting invited to a Slug Club party.

She grasped the handle and pulled.

Two boys came toppling out. One of them had been leaned against the back of the door, and he fell flat onto the stone floor, splayed out on his back. The other boy, much older than Grace, perhaps a seventh-year, looked up and blinked owlishly. His hair was dark and flurried, his eyes wide and dazed, tan cheeks flushed. Under the faint light of the torches, Grace could make out the Gryffindor crest stitched onto his rumpled robes.

The other boy groaned and rolled over on the floor. He straightened himself up and looked at Grace. He was—

“ _Avery?_ ”

He froze and stared at her, mouth slack. He was in a similar state of disarray. His normally neat hair was mussed, and his robes were lopsided.

They stared at each other, all three of them, for one long moment. Finally, chest heaving, Avery broke the silence: “What are you _doing_ here?”

Grace’s gaping mouth snapped shut. “Oh. I was stealing from Slughorn, and—”

“What?” Avery interrupted. His mouth open and closed several times. “I—you—what the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

Grace faltered, and stared up at him. He had not spoken in the exasperated, tired way Grace had come to expect from him. His words were sharp and needling, his voice tight and distressed. He floundered in himself for a moment, wringing his hands uselessly, lips pressed so tightly together they were turning white. He seemed to be coming undone before her eyes. He seemed to be upset—actually, _really_ upset.

“A—are you okay?” she asked tentatively, half-afraid of the answer she might get.

“Okay?” he repeated, bewildered. A strangled sort of laugh tore from his lips.

“Castor,” the other boy said quietly, drawing Avery’s eyes to him. There was something pitiful in the way he was looking at Avery, dark eyes so soft and tender it made Grace’s heart churn. She realized, for the first time, that she might be have overstepped. “Why don’t you go? I’ll talk to her.”

“It’s just—” Avery started and then stopped. His gaze turned back on Grace, and she shrunk under it. Her thoughts spun like a whirlwind, and it dizzied her. She wasn’t sure what had happened, only that something had, only that Avery was unhappy with her. “You can’t tell anyone. Do you understand that?”

“Er—” Grace started, eyes flickering between the two boys anxiously. Tell _what_?

Avery swallowed thickly. “You don’t, do you? You don’t get it. Fucking—” his eyes flickered to the boy climbing out of the broom closet. “My whole future’s in the hands of a dumb eleven-year-old.”

Grace’s lips dipped into a deep frown. “Hold on—”

“Don’t say any different,” Avery said, looking at her so harshly, so severely, that Grace stumbled back. His gaze pricked her like a dagger. “You don’t use your bloody head. I’ve _seen_ it! You blurt the first thing that comes to your mouth. What— _fuck_ —what am I supposed to do? You’re going to ruin—”

He was talking _at_ Grace, like she was both there and not. It was the meanest thing she had ever experienced. She had not met many people before she came to Hogwarts. She had spent time with family members: older cousins, distant relatives with grey hair and knobby knees and wispy smiles. They had all been polite. Perhaps a little raucous, but kind nonetheless. The Muggle kids she used to play with near Godric’s Hollow had been rowdy, but never intentionally foul. There had been the occasional scraped knee, of course, but nothing more.

The only person who might have come close to being mean was James, but it was only James. It was always _you’re such a prat_ and _stop being a git_ and _leave me alone_. Never did he tell her she was dumb. Never did he tell her she was untrustworthy, that she didn’t use her head, that she ruined things for him.

“Hey,” the other boy said, grasping Avery’s upper arm. His voice was hard. “She’s just a first-year. We’ll sort it.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Avery said, and every word was punctured with despair.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said. With James, the apology would have had to been pried from her mouth. But this was not James, and although Grace did not think she had done anything wrong, she thought she might as well offer an apology. She wanted the twisting in her stomach to stop. She wanted the jackhammer beat of her heart to slow.

The other boy locked eyes with her. “You’ve nothing to—”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t exactly help, does it?” Avery snapped. “Is this what you do every night? Lurking about the corridors in the shadows like some sort of—sort of coward? Or are you just _stupid_?” The word flew from his lips like a whip sailing through the air. It stung Grace viciously. “So stupid you can’t realize that your actions have consequences, that they affect other people?”

Tears pricked the corners of Grace’s eyes. They slid down her face quickly and quietly, much to her displeasure. She rubbed at her face hard. 

She was not sad. She was _furious_. Every nerve in her was lit with rage. The whole of her swelled with wrath, and it was such a thick, clouded thing that it made her eyes sting and water. She did not want to cry, did not want those saltwater tears to slip down her cheeks, but they did. She was not weak. She ached for the world to know that she was anything but weak. There was just too much happening in her head and her heart. It was a reaction she could not control.

“What are you doing?” the other boy said, having found his voice at last. He stared at Avery, aghast. “Merlin, she’s just a kid.”

Avery faltered, and he turned to the boy he had been snogging mere moments ago. Something unspoken passed between them, but Grace did not know what. She did not care, either. She only knew that Avery had at last stopped his tirade, that there was a wonderful silence stretching out between the three of them now, a blank canvas to mar. This was her chance, and she pounced onto it readily.

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Grace cried out. Her voice wobbled, her lips trembled. She wished she were more ferocious than she seemed. She certainly felt it. “It’s _you_! You’re the coward, hiding away in a broom closet, yelling at me because you don’t know how to deal with yourself!”

“Potter—” Avery began, nostrils flared.

“And I’m _not_ stupid!” Grace’s eyes burned. There was something thick and terrible clustering in the center of her chest, like it had been stuck with cotton that was slowly being set ablaze. “ _You’re_ stupid! You’re the one who decided to choose a _broom_ _closet_ of all things! That’s stupid! That’s—you’re _hiding_ , and that must be because you’re scared or ashamed, and that—that makes you stupid and a coward. Not me. Not—!”

Her voice lost power towards the end. She wanted to keep going, but she choked on the words— _not me, not me, not me_ —and was afraid that she might start sobbing. She met Avery’s broken gaze defiantly, and held her chin out even though it was wavering, even though her limbs ached, even though the violent beating in her chest hadn’t settled in the slightest.

“One hundred points from Slytherin,” Avery said, voice trembling. He seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.

“ _Castor_ —”

“Take another hundred!” Grace said immediately. “Take a thousand! I’m sure everyone would love to know _why_ Slytherin lost so much in one night—”

“And you’d tell them, wouldn’t you? You with your big mouth—you’d tell the whole school, wouldn’t you? Because you don’t know when to _stop._ You don’t know the meaning of the word, I suppose. I should have expected it, of course, given your family—”

“Don’t talk about my family,” Grace spat.

“Oh, is that a sore subject for you?” he sneered.

“Shut _up_ —”

“I saw you for what you were the moment I laid eyes on you: a little girl looking for attention.” Avery’s voice turned hard and harsh. Each word seemed to contain thousands within it. It was a torrent, ceaseless and unrelenting. “That’s why you’re out—”

“Castor, that’s enough,” the other boy said severely, lips pressed together tightly. “I would’ve handled it if you’d kept your mouth shut.”

Grace stepped away, backing up further and further, until her back came up flush against the stone wall. She could feel the chill of it through her robes, and it was a welcome distraction from the fiery mix of hurt and rage working through her. 

Avery deflated like a pricked balloon. “I only meant—you don’t understand what—”

“I don’t think I need another reminder about what I do and don’t understand,” he replied coldly.

“Francis—” Avery started desperately, but stopped when he saw Grace turn the corner of the passageway. He whirled around. “Hold on—Potter—!”

Grace hurtled down the corridor. The dark was cool and comforting, and although it hid Grace from sight, it did nothing to hide the uncomfortable twisting and writhing inside her. The words _dumb_ and _coward_ and _stupid_ spun in her, thread trailing after some needle that punctured her over and over and over again.

It took a long while before she realized she had gone down the end she came out of, and was back by the Hufflepuff common room. It took even longer before she began to wonder if perhaps that had been a Boggart after all.

* * *

She found herself in the kitchens.

Amongst the steady flurry of house-elves, all milling around her, like some calm, constant ocean, Grace sat by the hearth. Her knees were gathered against her chest, chin propped onto them. There was a half-eaten slice of apple pie in a plate besides her.

She hardly noticed the person who crept up behind her.

“I’m sorry.”

Her head twisted around so fast, she might have snapped her neck. When her eyes caught onto Avery’s slumped form, his nervous hands, his dark hair—fixed and neat—something in her face curdled. The serene quiet she had nursed gently in her chest since she first stepped foot in the kitchens fractured in an instant. Fury split her like a white-hot knife.

Her jaw was tight. “I don’t care. Go away.”

She didn’t want his sorry. It didn’t sound like a true apology, anyway. Grace wanted a sorry that was more pitiful. She wanted a sorry that broke him down and built her up. She wanted a sorry that said, _You were right and I was wrong. You’re not stupid or cowardly, I am._

She did not get this. Instead, Avery settled down besides her, cross-legged by the hearth. He did not meet her eyes, and Grace tore her stare away from his form. They each stared at the flickering flames in the fireplace, together but separate, both painfully aware of the other’s existence but unsure of what to do about it. Grace wanted to scream at him, but she didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know if he’d listen.

“You care an awful lot.” Avery’s voice was low and pained. “I know you do, because what I said hurt. And I know what I said hurt, because it would have hurt me, too.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t. I don’t care.” Her words were choked. She hated it. She wanted to be built of steel, impenetrable and unshakeable. “And I bet you don’t either, not really. I bet you only came because your—” she searched for a word, but _friend_ fell short and she didn’t know if _boyfriend_ was right, “—your Francis was upset.”

He didn’t respond do this, choosing to stare despondently into the flames of the fire. His profile was lit gold.

“How’d you find me, anyway?” she asked, unhappy at the thought that she was so easy to read that Avery had found her almost instantly.

“Regulus Black,” he said simply, and then lifted his head up. His eyes were dark and sad. “Can I explain?”

“No,” she said immediately.

“And you won’t accept my apology?”

She refused to answer.

Avery sighed. He played with his hands, the two interlocking, knuckles hitting knuckles. “Can I tell you a story?”

This was so startling that Grace actually looked at him. She didn’t just glance. She _looked_. She held his gaze, hazel against deep brown, and saw in his eyes a bit of what was in her—some tumultuous storm, some terrible typhoon whirling within his head.

“What?” she said.

“There was a boy in a manor,” he began quietly. His voice was a shadow. His eyes returned to the hearth. “One day, his mother packed up and went to France, and she took his sister along with her. The boy was very confused. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t have gone with them. Soon, he understood. His father needed him. His father needed to teach him to take on the mantle of the house, how to manage the land, how to sort the inheritances, how to serve in court. His father needed to do all this. ‘Okay,’ said the boy, and he learned it all. But then—” Avery’s voice dried, grew stale and bitter, “—his father got a new wife. Soon, he had a new son. Soon, it was that new son who needed to be taught, who was to take everything—”

“What’s this got to do with anything?” Grace sighed, growing tired.

“Just setting the scene,” Avery said, glancing at her. “So, you’ve got a very miserable, snubbed boy. He’s on his way to Hogwarts. On the train, he meets a boy who’s smart and funny and kind, and he thinks, ‘I’ve found myself a friend.’ He thinks, ‘If I haven’t got a family, at least I’ll have a friend.’ And he does, for a little while.” Avery hunched forward. He pressed the hilt of his palms over his eyes for a brief moment. “And then he doesn’t. He’s got something more than a friend, actually. And it’s not something the boy’s father would like, but what does that matter, right? It’s not like they're on the best of terms anyway, right?”

“No,” Grace agreed, hoping this story might end soon.

“But then, something strange happens.” He smiled wanly. “The boy’s father decides his new son isn’t quite good enough—too reckless, too witless—and he switches back to his old son. Everything— _everything_ —” Avery eyes closed once more, and he says, somewhat brokenly, “—is mine again. So, now I’ve got a family. And I’ve got someone they wouldn’t like, that they’d absolutely hate, and I don’t know what to do about it, so…”

“You hide?” The words were sharp. They hurt. Grace knew they did, because that’s what she wanted them to do.

Avery’s lips thinned. He doesn’t protest. Instead, he looked at Grace and said, “I was worried. More than worried—distressed, maybe, is the better word. Because you’ve told me things I thought you shouldn’t before. How am I to know that you won’t just go and tell someone what you’ve seen tonight?”

“Because it’s not the same.” Grace’s arms curled around her knees. “Can’t you see it’s not the same? I tell you about what I’m up to because you helped me the first time round, with the Howlers. So I thought I could trust you.” She paused for a moment and added, “Regulus didn’t like the idea of stealing from Slughorn. I thought if I brought it up with you and you didn’t like it either, then maybe it really was a bad idea.”

Silence stretched out between them. Grace refused to look at Avery. She imagined he might be making the same face he had when examining the tarot cards—curious, confused, questioning.

Finally, he said, “I’m sorry. I can never tell when people are trying to be friends with me and when they’re trying to irritate me.”

“Sometimes it’s the same thing,” Grace said quietly. “Why don’t you just sod your family and do what you want?”

“It’s not so simple. You wouldn’t—” he started and stopped. “It’s not so simple,” he said again uselessly. “Merlin—it’s been like this for so long. I half-thought we’d be found out sooner. I thought it would be a professor, or at least a Prefect. It sounds terrible, but I’ve dreamed about how that would go like. Or perhaps ‘nightmared’ is the better word for it.” He shook his head. “All along, I thought it would be someone who…who would understand the gravity of it, someone who’d know the goldmine they’ve landed on. Could you imagine the headline: Heir to House Avery Shagging a—” he broke off abruptly and fell silent.

Grace stared ahead at the hearth. Her heart had long slowed into a gentle rhythm. The day had been long, and the night even longer. She was growing tired of being angry.

“You’re much more perceptive than you let on,” Avery said after a moment. “You got it spot-on: I was yelling at you because I didn’t know how to deal with myself. Not that that’s any sort of excuse. I’m very sorry. It was’t fair. I was—I don’t know, just—”

“Distressed?” Grace supplied flatly.

He nodded half-heartedly. “It wasn’t about you, not really. I mean—it was, because you were there and you saw, but…but what were you going to do with that information? I’d never thought a first-year would wade into my personal life. You could tell anyone: your mum, your dad, your friends over dinner—all for the fun of it, because you wouldn’t understand.”

“I do understand,” Grace said fiercely. “I know what it means to keep a secret. You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Avery regarded her silently. “You won’t tell a soul?”

It irritated her that he thought she might. “No.”

There was a faint furrow between his brows. “You don’t—” his eyes searched hers, “—want anything?”

There were so many things she wanted. Perhaps that was where she and Avery fell into commonality. There was scarcely a time that deep chasm of longing wasn’t present in Grace. _You don’t want anything?_ What an unnecessary question. Of course she wanted something. She wanted everything.

She wanted a new deck of tarot cards. She wanted James to let her borrow his things. She wanted to join the other first-years in Flying. She wanted the other Slytherin girls to be more friendly. She wanted her mother to hover less. She wanted her father to love her like she was steel instead of glass.

She could, in this brief moment, understand Avery. He wanted his family, and he wanted Francis. It was pulling him apart.

“I want you to trust me.” She figured she was owed it, at this point.

His eyes softened. “Alright,” he agreed.

Grace resumed her steady vigil over the hearth. She wanted one more thing. She wanted to ask a question— _I’m not stupid or cowardly…right?_ —but she didn’t want him to know she was still thinking about that. So, she stuffed that question deep into her heart. It wasn’t relevant, anyway. She knew she wasn’t stupid. Her grades were only a little lower than Regulus's, and she always stood her ground against Rosier and Yaxley.

She knew that, and yet…

“Are you okay?” Avery asked, and his voice was gentle.

She was pulled back to the moment. The heat of the hearth was warm against her face. It felt like her mother’s caress.

“Yeah,” she said absentmindedly, tracing grooves in the tiles with her finger. “You know…I never knew your first name is Castor.”

“It is,” he said rather dryly. “My sister’s is Callisto, and my mother’s is Calanthe.”

“Your dad’s?”

“Rawdon.”

It was a strange name. “My dad’s name is Fleamont. He said kids used to make fun of him for it when he went to Hogwarts, so he started dueling them.” She met Avery’s eyes. “Reckon they knew each other? Your dad and mine?”

“Perhaps they dueled.”

Grace hummed in agreement. “I think my great-uncle’s named Castor. He smelled like boiled asparagus.”

“I’ll continue his legacy as best I can,” Avery promised. A beat passed, and then he said, once more, “I really am sorry, you know. I didn’t know how to deal with the situation, and my anger got the best of me.”

Grace could understand this. She had let her rage dictate her actions many times over. Despite this, she still could not find it in her heart to tell Avery she forgave him. The night still felt young. The words rang fresh in her mind.

“Okay,” she acknowledged.

The house-elves were still bustling about. Grace could hear the shuffle of their small feet against the tiles. The hearth swelled and flickered under her gaze. She might have been in the kitchens for ten minutes or ten hours.

“Come on,” Avery said, rising after a few seconds. “It’s late. I’ll walk you back.”

She glanced up at him suspiciously. “Walk me? Why?”

He smiled fondly and shrugged. “Because you’re a troublemaker.”

He said it so simply, so casually, like it was some well-known fact of the universe that Grace Potter was and always would be a troublemaker, that she could not help but snort, get up, and follow him out of the kitchens.


	16. Blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace receives some consolation, gets her hands on a new deck of tarot cards, comes clean to Regulus, and attends her first Slug Club party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

The following morning, Grace was greeted by a world of chatter in the Great Hall. Gryffindors were milling about with their chests puffed out. Hufflepuffs shared secret, somewhat mischievous smiles with one another. Ravenclaws pondered about the meaning of it all, the who and the how and the why. And the Slytherins—the Slytherins were _furious_.

“Who do you reckon it was?” Regulus asked her quietly as the other first-years debated loudly over who it could have been that cost their House one hundred points in one night.

Grace’s throat was tight. “I dunno,” she mumbled, and stuffed her face with so much food it was impossible for Regulus to expect her to say anything more.

“It must have been someone older,” Regulus continued, “someone who could have done something to upset a professor. Maybe—” his eye grew round and wide, “—they did something _illegal_. Like they smuggled in Acromantula eggs or something.”

Grace nodded along absently. Her eyes flickered down the end of the Slytherin table. She couldn’t quite make out the cluster of seventh-years, but she assumed they were there, assumed that Avery was sitting somewhere along the table and was well-aware of the uproar. Why hadn’t he given the points back yet? _Could_ he give them back?

She figured very quickly that—no—no, he couldn’t. To take a hundred points and give them back in the course of a couple hours was suspicious. The professors would wonder what had happened. They would have to find out who it was that took the points and for what reason. They would figure out it was Avery, some way or the other, and Avery would never allow that to happen, because he had a secret to guard.

So, of course Slytherin would remain one hundred points short. Of course they would be stuck in last place for the House Cup. And, of course it was Grace’s fault.

“Come on,” Regulus urged once he had polished his plate clean.

“Come on…?” Today was a Saturday. There wasn’t anywhere they needed to be.

“To the library,” Regulus said exasperatedly, already grabbing his bag. “We’re doing research today, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Grace pushed her half-eaten pile of toast and baked beans away from her, and followed Regulus out of the Great Hall.

Regulus had been meaning to have Grace help him look through the medical section in the library. He had wanted to do it before holiday, when Grace had first told him that her Healer wasn’t sure what had caused the episode that put her in St. Mungo’s for a week, but Grace had been so wrapped up in tutoring sessions and catching up on homework that she never quite got the chance.

Seeing as it was their first week back and teachers were still figuring out assignments to dole out, Regulus supposed it was prime time to do some research.

Grace didn’t think there was any harm in playing along, so she followed him along to the library, now and again nodding or shaking her head when he asked her if the stomach pain she experienced that fateful night had reappeared or if she felt gassy before Andromeda took her to the Hospital Wing or if she had any other symptoms, like coughing or headaches.

Grace’s heart wasn’t quite into the charade. When Regulus chatted with Madam Pince about the medical books in the library, Grace began to drift further and further away. She wandered amongst the stacks of yellowed, ancient books, now and again running her finger along the spine of them.

Grace had never quite cared about points, but she did care about what Slytherin thought of it. She didn’t _like_ that she cared about what people thought, but she she couldn’t help it. She cared about what James thought of her pranks and what her parents thought of her magical prowess and what Regulus thought about her ridiculous plans and what Avery thought about her character. She couldn’t help but care.

Her thoughts swirled around in her head. She wondered, faintly, if she held any hope of gaining back those one hundred points. But how could she? Professors only ever awarded a couple in class, and you had to be truly exceptional to gain them. It would take eons for Grace to earn back that many, if she even could.

Unwillingly, almost treacherously, Grace thought perhaps she really was stupid. She would have never lost Slytherin so many points if she hadn’t decided to sneak into Slughorn’s private store room to get ingredients for her dumb, utterly meaningless prank. She wouldn’t have lost those points if she’d only held her tongue, if she’d only explained herself calmly, if she’d only had the presence of mind to think ahead.

Grace was so immersed in her thoughts that she scarcely noticed the crimson-haired student rummaging through the shelves in front of her. In just a few more steps, Grace found herself colliding into Lily.

“Whoa,” the second-year said, catching hold of Grace by the shoulder before she could tumble down. “Grace?”

“Oh,” she said absently. “Sorry, Lily.”

Lily righted herself and let go of Grace. She swung the heavy book she was grasping tightly in her left hand to her right. “Are you alright?” she asked. “You look quite…pensive.”

“Pensive?” Grace echoed.

“Yes, like you’re deep in serious thought.” She smiled and added jokingly, “It’s not really a look I’ve come to associate with you.”

Grace’s face crumpled in an instant.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like _that_ ,” Lily said instantly, alarmed. She set her book down on the shelf. “I only meant you’ve usually got such a carefree attitude about you—lighthearted and eager. You don’t usually look, well, so fretful. Is something wrong?”

“No,” Grace mumbled, and moved with the intention to sidestep Lily and get on with her aimless stroll.

But Lily gently caught Grace by the upper arm and drew her back. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did something happen?”

Grace was struggling with herself. Lily was very nice, but Grace wasn’t sure if this was something Lily would care to listen about.

“Here, I’ve got a trick,” Lily said. “When something’s bothering me but I don’t quite know what, I like to just say the first word that comes to my mind. And then I figure it out from there. Would you want to try that?”

“Er—”

“Come on,” Lily said brightly. “First word. What is it?”

Maybe it was the soft, earnest look in Lily’s eyes. Maybe it was the fact that they were hidden so deep in the library that no one could hear them. Maybe it was because all of Grace’s thoughts were crammed so tightly into her heart and her head that some of them just _had_ to leak out. Whatever the reason, Grace found herself blurting it out: “Stupid.”

Lily seemed taken aback. Her mouth fell slack and her forehead creased. “Stupid? What’s stupid?”

“ _I’m_ stupid,” Grace said with a quiet resignation. They were near the back row of the library, just touching the Restricted Section, out of sight and sound. Grace supposed it would be alright to say the next few words aloud: “It was me.”

“You…?”

Grace’s heart fluttered in her chest like a wild bird. “I lost Slytherin one hundred points. It was just—I didn’t _mean_ for it to happen. I heard the thumping, and I didn’t know—and it was just that he was _yelling_ , and I didn’t like it—when James and I argue, I yell back. I always yell back.” Grace bit at her bottom lip viciously. “I said mean things, but only because he said mean things first. And it cost Slytherin _one hundred points_.”

“I’m sorry,” Lily said, voice soft and quiet, “but I don’t really understand. How did you lose Slytherin one hundred points? It doesn’t sound like you did anything?”

“I—well—” Grace opened and closed her mouth several times. “I can’t explain it. It’s a secret.”

“A secret?”

“Yeah—er—” Grace’s mouth was very dry. “It’s that…I found out something I wasn’t supposed to, because I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to. And he was really mad about that. And I was mad that he was mad. And then Slytherin lost one hundred points.”

It was the poorest explanation she had ever given for any of her actions, but it was the only she could manage to conjure without betraying Avery’s trust. Grace watched her words sink into Lily, watched the older girl consider all this, watched the thoughts roll through her head.

“First of all,” Lily started, “I just want to make sure you’re not caught up in anything. Whatever it is you found out—it’s not anything dangerous, or anything that’d get you in trouble, right?”

Grace shook her head.

“Okay, so if I understand correctly: you just found out something that mattered a lot to this other fellow, right?”

“Right.”

“And he was mad?”

“Yeah.”

“And you were mad?”

Grace nodded

“And he was a Prefect, so he just took one hundred points from you, is it?” Lily’s voice was very tight.

Grace’s eyes were wide. “Well, _maybe_ he was a Prefect—”

“No, it was definitely a Prefect, if he took points.” Lily’s eyes were ablaze. They reminded Grace of the emerald green fire of the Floo. “Who was it? The Prefect? They can’t just take points because you were upset, Grace, especially a hundred. That’s not allowed. Who was it? I’ll sort it.”

Grace shook her head. “No, it was—” _my fault_ , she was going to say, but it wasn’t, because the situation was more complex than that, “—it’s already sorted, Lily. Really, it is. It was just a spat. He apologized to me and all. We made up. But he didn’t return the points. I reckon it’s because it’ll look suspicious, and—” she bit her tongue and stopped. “And then the whole secret will be out in the open, which can’t happen.”

Lily chewed on this. “Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“That everything is okay with you and your Prefect friend?”

“Yes,” Grace insisted. “He was only scared. _That_ part is fine, but I dunno what to do about these hundred points. And…and what if my House finds out I’m the one who lost them?”

“The points?” Lily repeated in disbelief.

“Yes,” Grace said with more emphasis this time. “The points.”

“Sod the points,” Lily said readily. “Tell me, honestly, what are they useful for?”

“Well, they’re used to figure out who wins the House Cup at the end of the year.”

“And what do you do with the House Cup?”

Grace considered this. “I dunno. I suppose you celebrate.”

“And then what?”

“I…” Grace’s eyes flickered away from Lily. “I guess then it starts all over next year.”

“Exactly. It just begins all over again. If Slytherin loses the House Cup this year, they’ll just the next to try again. Points are just points, Grace.”

“Yeah…but I lost a _hundred_ points Lily. That’s a lot more than someone just losing a few points in class because they misfired a spell or something.” Grace gnawed at her bottom lip. “Slytherin was in _second place_ yesterday. Now we’re dead last. And it’s my fault.”

Lily took a deep breath. “Okay, let me pose it to you another way. The yelling aside, is it worth having lost these one hundred points if your friend can keep his secret?”

Grace blinked in surprise. She’d never thought about it like that before. She supposed that must have been the way Avery was looking at it, because the answer for him was, of course: “Yes.”

Lily smiled. “Then that’s all there is to it, isn’t there?”

“But if they find out it’s me that lost—”

“If they find out it’s you, then they’ll have me to deal with,” Lily said resolutely.

Grace’s brows rose. “You?”

“Yes, me,” Lily sniffed. “I can do quite a lot if I set my mind to it, you know. I could charm people’s hair to fall out, vanish their homework, transfigure their breakfast into something inedible.” Lily paused and added, “But I doubt it’ll have to come to that. I know the Slytherins are all griping over the points now, but I promise you it’ll all blow over soon enough.”

“It will?” Grace asked.

“It will,” she promised. “And, by the way, you’re absolutely not stupid. I know better than anyone. You’re clever. Everyone is clever, in their own way. Some people are very good at arithmetic, others prefer writing, and so on. You’re great at potioneering and writing essays, but I reckon you’re best at dealing with people. You’ve got people skills. I’ve seen it, when you handle your brother’s griping and taunting, when you manage to convince the otherwise unconquerable Madam Pince that you covered much more material than you actually did.” She smiled, and the white of her teeth peeked true. “Not to mention, there’s a whole _slew_ of other things you are. Despite how rude your friend was, you’ve decided to just go on ahead and keep his secret. That’s very brave and very loyal and very admirable of you.”

By the end of Lily’s small speech, Grace’s heart was full to bursting. She pulled the redhead into a hug and said, very warmly, “Thank you.”

Lily patted her on the back and said, teasingly, “What else are tutors for?”

* * *

“Next on my list,” Regulus announced, walking alongside Grace, “is Stinkitus.”

Grace caught herself mid-snort. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Stinkitus’?”

“It’s a real thing,” he insisted.

They were on their way to the Headmaster’s office. Grace was heading there because she, of course, needed to use Dumbledore’s Floo to get to St. Mungo’s for her weekly appointment. Regulus was coming because…well, because why not?

“What _is_ Stinkitus?”

“It’s when you’ve had too much exposure to stink pellets,” Regulus explained. “And you were handling quite a lot of stink pellets before you went to the Hospital Wing.”

“I don’t think I have Stinkitus, Regulus. If it were something as simple as that, I’m sure the Healers would have figured it out. Besides, James has handled _way_ more stink pellets than me, and he seems perfectly fine.”

“Well…it could me Mumblemumps.” Regulus squinted at Grace very carefully. “But I don’t see any lumps on your neck.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “I got Mumblemumps when I was around seven or eight. James got it then, too. You can’t get it more than once, right?”

“No,” Regulus said sadly, glancing back at his list of possible ailments. “I’ve only got Scrofungulus left, but you’re not coughing.”

Grace stopped by the gargoyle step that guarded the stairs to the Headmaster’s office. Her eyes flitted down at the parchment grasped tightly in Regulus’s hand before flickering back up to meet his eyes. “Look, Regulus,” she began gently, “I appreciate all the effort you’ve put, but I think we should just leave this to the Healers, y’know? If they’re confused, it’s likely something that can’t be found in a book.”

After Grace had seen Regulus poring over three different volumes of magical illnesses during dinner, she had grown worried. She didn’t want him to waste time looking through medical books when he could be playing Exploding Snap or re-reading _The Miraculous Mage_. More than that, she was a little afraid that Regulus might find what he was looking for. His library skills were unparalleled. If he kept at it for a few more months, Grace was almost certain that he would figure out what was _actually_ wrong with her.

“It’s just—” Regulus struggled with something for a moment. “You’ve been going an awful lot. Surely, they’ve got _some_ idea of what happened to you by now?”

Grace merely shrugged. “The Healers mostly talk to my parents.”

“Oh.” He fidgeted again. “It’s nothing _serious_ , is it? You’re alright?”

“If it was really serious,” Grace began honestly, “you’d know.”

He relaxed. “Alright, then. When are you coming back?”

“I dunno. It probably won’t be more than hour or so.” Her eyes brightened. “Do you want to try to lure the Great Squid out of the lake when I get back?”

“Er—” Regulus started unsurely. “How about _you_ do that, and I can read by the lake?”

“Sounds like a—”

“Oi,” the gargoyle groaned, “are you going up or what?”

“Er—yeah, yeah,” Grace said. “I’ll see you later, Regulus.” She turned fully to the gargoyle and said, “Chocoballs.”

Regulus waved his goodbyes to her. The gargoyle revealed the hidden set of stairs, and Grace climbed up. As she went higher and higher, a wobbly, distressed voice carried down to meet her ears:

“…told that there has been a coalition amongst pure-blood families. It is…unsettlingly similar to the riots we witnessed during the Squib Rights marches. I am hearing the most terrible things, Albus. Surely, you’ve heard—”

“It does us no good to wallow in rumors, Eugenia,” Dumbledore said.

Grace wavered at the threshold of Dumbledore’s office, unsure if she should step in or not. In all the weeks she had come up to the office to use the Floo, Dumbledore had always been unoccupied. He was always wandering amongst his shelves, or sitting with strange instruments at his desk. He was never with guests.

Grace peeked around the edge of the open entrance and saw, to her utter surprise, that it wasn’t just some professor that was with Dumbledore. It was the _Minister for Magic_ , Eugenia Jenkins. The Minister fluttered around Dumbledore anxiously, her thin, pale hair clipped back into a tight bun, her lips pressed into an unhappy grimace.

“My Aurors are picking up on chatter, the most dreadful whispers, that there is a new Grindelwald surfacing, Albus—”

Grace leaned in closer.

“Ah, Miss Potter!” Dumbledore called out.

Grace started at the noise. “Er—sorry, sir,” she said, scrambling inside completely. “It’s just…I need the Floo, but I didn’t know if I should interrupt.” Her eyes wavered to the Minister, who seemed almost as nervous as she was. “Hello, Minister….”

The Minister blinked down at her. Her eyes were very pale, and her skin wan. She seemed like she had been wrung through the wash and all the color had bled out of her. “Er—oh, hello.” She glanced at Dumbledore. “I’m so sorry, Albus, I didn’t even think before Flooing over. You have a meeting, is it?”

“No, no,” he assured her. He guided Grace over to the Floo. “Miss Potter simply has an arrangement to use the Floo at this time. We may continue talking, as soon as she leaves.”

Grace glanced at the adults surreptitiously. Dumbledore seemed to be all warm cheer and calm nerves, but the Minister was a fumbling mess. Whatever it was that was going on in the Ministry couldn’t be good.

“Thanks, sir,” Grace said, grabbing a handful of Floo powder and stepping into the fireplace.

As she dropped the powder into the base of the hearth, as she shouted her destination, she saw the Minister turn back to Dumbledore and say, with a heart-wrenching desperation, “People are _disappearing_ , Albus.”

Grace was torn from Hogwarts. She whizzed about the channel of tunnels that connected all fireplaces for a solid minute before coming out in the main lobby of St. Mungo’s. Grace blinked a couple of times, dizzy from the trip, before righting herself and stepping out.

The hospital was a well of white light. Grace pierced through it like a black dart, finding her way to the Mabyn Gwawr ward. To her relief, her parents were already there, talking to Healer Kane.

Dad saw her first. “Gracie!” he roared happily, standing to catch her in his arms as she flung herself into him. “How’re you?”

“Wicked,” she breathed, and looked up at her father. “Did you get them, Dad? _Please_ tell me you got them.”

Dad pulled a fake pout. “What’s this? You can’t even ask your dear old father how he’s been?”

“ _Dad_ ,” she whined.

He chuckled and, from the pocket of his robe, pulled out a shining new deck of tarot cards. He handed them to her before leading her to Mum and Healer Kane. “Now, the lady in the shop _assured_ me that these were the ones that _real_ , _professional_ readers use. So, if you don’t like them, be angry with the shop lady and not me.”

Grace was hurriedly ripping open the packaging. She spread the deck open in her hands, and her face split into a grin as she looked over them. They weren’t striking like Andromeda’s astronomy-themed cards or flashy like Avery’s gold-backed ones. They were simply cards. The backs were a plain, eggshell yellow that reminded Grace of the pages of worn books. And the fronts were absolutely beautiful. The drawings were done with such detail and intricacy that Grace felt like she could stare at the images for years and years and never run out of things to look at it. She’d never get bored with these cards.

“Grace,” Mum greeted, drawing Grace to her side and pecking a kiss against her cheek. “How are you, darling?”

“Good!” Grace said brightly, holding the cards close to her chest. Her eyes sought out her father’s. “Dad, these are amazing! Thank you!”

He beamed and gently ruffled her hair. “Only the best for you, Gracie.”

“Hello, Grace,” Healer Kane greeted. “I trust you’ve been well?”

Grace nodded enthusiastically. She settled onto the hospital cot her parents were gathered around. “Yeah. No episodes or anything. I haven’t even got a headache.” She peered up at Kane hopefully. “Maybe it’s going away?”

Kane chuckled softly as she brought out her wand. With a flick of her wrist, the tip glowed a hazy blue. Grace stayed very still as the wand traveled around her head, focusing mostly on her temples.

When Kane withdrew, there was a small frown playing at her lips.

“Well?” Mum said.

“I—” Kane began before meeting Mum’s eyes. A silent exchange ran between them before Kane finally cleared her throat and said. “I’d like to show you the strain levels we’ve catalogued in Grace’s files. I drew up some comparisons to a few medieval cases as well. I think once you see them….”

She didn’t quite finish the sentence, but it was enough for Mum, who was already getting out of her seat. “Monty,” Mum said, “you’ll stay with Grace?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, eyes twinkling. “You can show me how to use your new cards.”

Grace lit up. “I can! I can do a reading for you.”

As Grace gathered her cards and clumsily shuffled them up, Mum and Kane disappeared further into the ward.

Dad settled into a chair by the bed. “A reading?”

“Yeah,” she said enthusiastically. “Okay, so the first step is for you to close your eyes.”

“Oh, dear,” Dad began. “It’s never a good idea to close your eyes around you or James.” Despite this, he did as told. “If I open my eyes and find you’ve done a runner—”

“I’m right here,” Grace said exasperatedly. She patted her cards together neatly and spread them out, face-down, across the linen of her cot. “Okay, now you’ve got to come up with a question. It can be about anything. The cards will give you the answer.”

“Hmm…alright.” Dad’s white, unruly brows creased together as he thought long and hard.

“You’ve got to _really_ focus,” Grace added.

“I’m really, _really_ focusing.”

“Good,” Grace said. After a few more moments, she said, “Okay, now you can open your eyes.”

Dad began to snore, pretending to be deep in sleep.

“ _Dad_ ,” Grace said, tugging at his arm. “C’mon, this is _serious_.”

“Oh!” he said, starting awake. “Must’ve dozed off.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to pick three cards now,” she said, gesturing at the laid-out deck. “Don’t hesitate. Just pick the first three you want.”

Dad gently tapped on the backs of his chosen cards.

Grace turned over the first one. It was a young boy with a sword. He didn’t look like he knew how to use it. He was standing atop a hill in a dress and tights, with the sword held limply in his hands. The sky was clear and fair, but the clouds rolling in were a deep grey.

“Huh,” Grace said, staring at the card. It only just occurred to her that she had never learned the meanings of the cards. “He looks like he’s awful with swords, so I suppose it’s telling you that you might be awful with them, too.”

Dad laughed.

Grace turned over the next card and frowned deeply. There were two people in this card, but they were falling from a tall tower. Lightning flashed down from the heavens, striking the tower, which was promptly enveloped by flames. “Don’t go into any towers,” she advised her father sagely.

The last card was the six of wands, which Grace only knew because there were very clearly six wands drawn. There was a wizard proudly marching forward on a horse. Beyond him, six members of a large crowd were cheering, wands outstretched. “Oh, a celebration,” Grace said happily, looking up. “Maybe it’s for your birthday, Dad.”

“Probably,” he agreed, glancing down at the mess of cards.

Before Grace could further scrutinize her cards, Mum and Healer Kane came back in. There was a frown etched deeply into Mum’s face, and Kane’s lips were pressed together in a tight, dissatisfied grimace.

“I’m taking you off all potions,” was the first thing Kane said when she was in earshot.

Grace’s brows rose. She glanced at the six of wands. Merlin, those cards worked fast. “Really?” she said eagerly. “I’m fine now, then?”

Mum’s hand had found Dad’s and was gripping it so tightly that it was a miracle Dad’s bones didn’t crumble and turn to dust.

Kane took a breath. “We…need more time before we can come to any sort of conclusion. I want to determine if you’re truly undergoing waning. I suggest we take you off of the course of mistletoe. No more sage or willow, either. And no draughts—well, as much as we can help it.” Kane’s dark eyes locked onto Grace’s. “And, this is the most important thing, Grace, do _not_ stress yourself for the next couple of months. I want you take things easy. If you find yourself struggling with coursework, write to your parents. They will tell me and I will contact Dumbledore for extensions and such. I do not, under any circumstances, want you to suffer any sort of mental strain—not until we come to a proper conclusion, okay?”

Grace thought this was easy enough. She rather liked not doing work. “Er—okay.”

“This is very serious.” This time, it was Mum who spoke. Her voice was tight and drawn. “Grace, you absolutely cannot go to great lengths for anything, okay? Mentally and physically. Do _not_ exert yourself.”

“I won’t,” Grace said immediately, a hint of irritation creeping through. She knew when things were important and when they weren’t. If Kane had told her not to, then Grace wouldn’t. “I promise I won’t.”

Mum nodded, satisfied, but her lips were still dipped into an unhappy little grimace.

Kane finished up Grace’s check-up quickly, and soon Grace was on her way back to Hogwarts.

It was much, much later when Grace realized something. It was after she had walked out of the Mabyn Gwawr ward, after she had tumbled back through the Floo, after she was well settled by the Great Lake with Regulus, that she realized with a start she had done the tarot reading wrong. She forgot to ask her father what his question was.

* * *

It was when Slughorn pressed down a thick invitation to his Valentine’s Day party in Grace’s hands that she realized she had completely forgotten about the ingredients she’d stolen from him. So much had happened that night that she had stuffed them somewhere inside her knapsack and promptly forgotten about them.

“Are you bringing anyone?” Regulus asked thoughtfully as they left Potions. He shifted his own invitation between his hands. “Blishwick asked if he could be my plus-one. He’s been trying to find ways to get Slughorn to notice him.”

Grace made a face. “He actually wants the man’s attention? I’d do anything to get him off my back.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and gingerly placed his card into his knapsack. “Not everyone despises being liked by the professor.”

“It’s not _that_ ,” Grace insisted. “I wouldn’t mind if Slughorn _liked_ me, but I don’t think he really does. I think he just likes what I can do, which isn’t the same.” Grace looked down at her invitation thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll bring someone that’ll have Slughorn think twice about me.”

Regulus’s brows rose. “You mean you want to bring someone who’d make a _bad_ impression on Slughorn?”

“Yeah, and that’ll of course reflect badly on me, since I would’ve invited them.”

“And it’ll reflect badly on _me_ since we’re Potions partners—”

“Oh, come on,” Grace said, nudging him. “Slughorn can hardly expect me to run my plus-ones by you.”

“That’s true,” Regulus conceded. “But you shouldn’t bring someone that might reflect poorly on you, because then Slughorn might not favor you anymore—”

Grace reached into her knapsack to tuck the invitation securely between her Potions kit and textbooks. As she shifted over her kit, her fingers brushed against the two vials she had smuggled from Slughorn’s private store room. Her eyes widened.

“—and it’s better to have him like you than have him hold a grudge against you, because what if—”

“I’ve got to show you something,” Grace said frantically, and dragged Regulus to a dark alcove.

“Wha—”

She pulled out the two vials of angel’s trumpet and snakeweed she had been carrying around with her for the past week, and handed them to Regulus. She peered at him cautiously, and patiently waited for his reaction.

“This is…” Regulus started, turning the bottles over in his hands. His eyes grew wide and he thrust the ingredients back at Grace. “Those are the ingredients for the Babbling Beverage!”

“Yeah….” Grace twisted the vials in her hands. She gently opened the flap for her bag.

“You said you weren’t going to get them!”

“Did I?” Grace said lightly, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Grace,” Regulus hissed under his breath, utterly appalled.

She didn’t answer him, instead taking the time to very carefully tuck the ingredients back into her bag.

“ _Grace_.”

“Regulus,” she acknowledged.

“Grace, did you break into Slughorn’s private store room for those?”

“I don’t think we should dwell on questions of _who_ did _what_ or _why_. There’s no need to dredge up the past.”

“I can’t believe it,” he said, aghast. “I can’t believe you actually broke into Slughorn’s store room—”

“Why would you say that out loud?” Grace whisper-yelled. “People might get the wrong idea!”

“Don’t you mean the right idea?” Regulus said, lips pursed. “Because you did exactly that.”

Grace’s heart dropped down to her stomach. “It was really quick. I was _barely_ in there. I just wanted the ingredients, because the idea was really funny—pranking the Ravenclaws. You thought so, too!”

Regulus struggled with something for a moment and then let out a breath and said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were going?” He sounded deeply wounded.

Grace squirmed uncomfortably. “Because you didn’t want to do it,” she burst. “And I knew it was risky—you told me as much—so I didn’t want you to get in trouble. You would’ve hated me if you got in trouble for it, and if your parents found out about it. So, I asked Dirk to help me instead.” She pursed her lips. “Not that he was a particularly good partner in crime.”

Regulus’s grey eyes softened. “You should have asked me anyway. I would’ve helped if you were going to go through with it, risks and all.” He glanced back at her knapsack, where the vials were hidden. “Besides, it seems like you managed to pull it off without getting in trouble. Slughorn still invited you to his party, so I gather he hasn’t figured it out?”

“No,” Grace agreed. She bit the inside of her cheek. “But on the way back, I…bumped into a Prefect…and I lost Slytherin one hundred points—”

“Sweet Circe!” Regulus exclaimed. “That was _you_?”

Grace winced. “Yes, but no one knows, and I’m really sorry about it. I didn’t mean to at all!”

“Oh, Merlin,” Regulus said, eyes wide. “Was that why that Prefect was looking for you? You didn’t get in trouble for it, did you?”

Grace pressed her lips together. She’d forgotten Avery had gone to Regulus to find her out. She didn’t know what lie Avery had spun for Regulus, but she hoped it wasn’t anything _too_ incriminating. “Yeah, but I didn’t get in trouble for the stealing, just for…staying out past curfew,” she assured him. She pulled out her two vials again. “And, honestly, I think it was worth it for these.”

“ _Put those back_ ,” Regulus hissed, shoving her hands back into her knapsack so quickly that one might have thought Grace was showing him smuggled dragon eggs instead of a few hard-to-come-by Potions ingredients. “What if someone sees?”

“Someone did see,” she pointed out. “You.”

The joke fell flat.

Regulus hefted a disgruntled sigh. “You’re really set on this plan, aren’t you?”

Grace looked at him for a moment, stomach twisting uncomfortably. “Well…if you’re _really_ against it, Regulus…I’ll return the ingredients. And we can forget all about it.” A beat passed, and then she added, “Sorry.”

“For…?”

She could have said so many things. She could have said she was sorry that she took the ingredients, sorry that she cost their House so many points, sorry that she was so set on the Babbling Beverage that she ignored his advice. But she wasn’t sorry for those things at all. What she was sorry for, really, was that she hadn’t told Regulus.

“I should’ve told you I was doing it anyway,” Grace said, voice small. “It probably would’ve gone smoother if you were there. And I probably wouldn’t have lost points if you were there. But, really, I should’ve told you because I should have. You’re my friend. I tell you things.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Even if you don’t like the things I tell you.”

He smiled at that, too. “When I say something is risky or that I’m worried…well, you know I mean just that right? I’m not saying I don’t want to help. I’m just pointing out what could go wrong. That’s what I’m there for. That’s what partners do, and we’re partners.”

“In crime?”

“Don’t push your luck,” he said dryly. He paused, eyes flickering down to Grace’s knapsack. “I would’ve helped you. Really.”

Grace perked up. “ _Well_ ,” she started, tugging at her bag, “you still can.”

“With brewing?”

“With brewing,” she confirmed. “We can do it in the kitchens. No one will notice.”

He considered it for a moment. Maybe he was afraid of being left out or maybe he was afraid that Grace would do it herself and set fire to the basement of Hogwarts. Whatever the reason, Regulus said, “Okay.”

She beamed, and immediately began tugging Regulus towards the kitchens. They settled themselves down by the hearth and borrowed a large pot from Pokey, setting it above the flaming logs. Grace pulled out her Potions book and kit, and busily began to concoct the Babbling Beverage.

Since Regulus rather disliked the actual potioneering, he mostly just watched and handed Grace some ingredients, now and then casting any necessary spells so Grace didn’t have to fish around for her wand.

Grace frowned as she rummaged through her kit. “Have you got any betel leaves?”

“Do you think I just carry all my supplies with me everywhere?” Regulus said.

Grace quirked a brow at him. He sighed, and promptly opened his own knapsack, pulling out his Potions kit. All the ingredients within were neatly organized and separated in their own little compartments. Regulus pulled out a couple of verdant, spade-like leaves and passed them to Grace.

She smiled gratefully, tore them to shreds, and dropped them into the cauldron. The potion within bubbled and hissed, and promptly changed to the color and consistency of sea foam—light and frothy with a touch of muted green seeping through.

“There!” Grace said, beaming. “I think that’s it.”

Regulus peered over the edge of the cauldron and nodded his approval. “It looks like how the textbook describes it.”

“Better,” Grace insisted as she gave the mixture one final stir. “Now, how do you suppose we should give this to the Ravenclaws tomorrow?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Regulus started, “and I think we can just ask the house-elves.”

Grace raised a brow. “I thought you’d definitely hate that idea, since they would get in trouble, too—if we get caught.”

“That’s just the thing, though,” Regulus said, frowning. “Even if we get caught, I don’t think anyone would point a finger at the house-elves unless we voluntarily gave that information. Professors would just assume that we came in early and slipped the potion into the Ravenclaws’ goblets or something. No one ever thinks about the house-elves. I doubt any of the staff at Hogwarts think about asking the house-elves if they’ve seen students do anything suspicious. I doubt Hogwarts students are aware of the house-elves to begin with.”

Grace blinked in surprise. “I suppose you’re right…but how should we convince them to help us? I mean—we’re not just borrowing cloaks this time. We’re slipping students a potion.” She glanced at the bubbling pot. “It’s not dangerous, of course. But they might think it is.”

Regulus brightened. “No they won’t! Not if we give them a demonstration.”

“A demonstration?”

“Pokey!” Regulus waved over.

The slight, purple house-elf looked up and smiled widely. “Mister Regulus,” she said happily. “Is Mister Regulus hungry?”

“Er, no,” Regulus said. “We were just wondering if you could help us.”

“Help?” Pokey said with wide, troubled eyes. “Students in danger?”

“No, no,” Grace said immediately, jumping up. “It’s just—well—we want to play a trick on some students. And we were wondering if you could help us.”

Pokey weighed this on her mind. She seemed unable to come to a proper conclusion, so she called over another house-elf. “Rakkle—Mister Regulus and Miss Grace need help.”

Rakkle flitted over, eyes flitting between the Slytherins anxiously. “Help?” he echoed. “Help with food?”

“No,” Regulus said. “We were wondering—okay, actually—” he shifted to Grace and nodded at the potion. “Why don’t you show them?”

“Show them…?”

“Show them the effects of the Babbling Beverage.”

Grace crossed her arms over her chest. “You want me to ingest this?”

“Yeah, so they know it’s nothing serious. Just take a little. It’ll wear off fast.” Regulus looked at her pointedly. “This is payback for breaking into Slughorn’s store room.”

Grace heaved a sigh. She dropped her hands and leaned towards the pot. She stuck her pinky finger in and brought it to her lips, licking off the potion. The effect was instantaneous:

“The bothersome blue Basilisk basks by boulders,” she burst. The words came out so fast and so suddenly, tumbling from her mouth like rocks, that they blurred into one another. She could hardly understand what she was saying herself.

Regulus snorted. Pokey stared up at Grace, half-amused, half-concerned. Rakkle burst out laughing.

Grace pursed her lips and tried to explain: “Funny frogs fan out from fair fens to far fields.”

“Miss Grace okay?” Pokey asked, giggling slightly.

“See, this is the trick we want to play,” Regulus explained. “We were hoping you could just drop a bit of this potion into the Ravenclaw students’ drinks tomorrow morning. We thought it’d be really funny, and none of the Hogwarts students would be hurt. It’s harmless.”

Pokey was still considering it but Rakkle, still laughing, immediately said, “Yes! It’s very funny, Mister Regulus.”

Regulus smiled triumphantly.

“Camels carry cantaloupes cross cliffs and canyons,” Grace said in thanks.

Rakkle let out another tremendous roar of laughter while Regulus handed the Babbling Beverage to a grinning Pokey.

When the next morning came and the Ravenclaws were spouting nonsense rhymes and phrases at breakfast, when every student in the vicinity promptly burst into fits of laughter, when Professor Flitwick vainly went around the Great Hall to find the conspirators behind the prank, Grace nudged Regulus and softly, smilingly, said, “Partners?”

He peered at her over the rim of his goblet, grinning. “In crime,” he completed.

* * *

Valentine’s Day came too swiftly for Grace’s liking.

She was pacing outside of Slughorn’s office, waiting anxiously for her plus-one to arrive. She had chosen him very carefully, with the intention that Slughorn would avoid her completely once he saw who she brought.

“There you are,” she hissed when she caught hold of him whistling down the hallway, carefree and oblivious as anything. She dragged him through the door. “Come on.”

“Wha—”

Slughorn’s office was surprisingly large, or perhaps it had been charmed larger to accommodate the festivities. The walls were lined with rose-petal pink drapes and snowy white streamers. Paper hearts and roses were strung from the ceiling, and there were a few silver balloons floating about. The room was crammed with students all ranging from first to seventh year. There were a few adults milling about, too—Ministry workers, judging from the uniform, navy blue robes, and professors alike. In the back of the room, Grace spotted a table sporting a chocolate fountain.

“Ah, hello, Miss Potter!” Slughorn said cheerily, appearing from a throng of guests. He was wearing a set of deep crimson dress robes instead of his usual dull beige get-up. His mustache had been trimmed, too. “So happy to see you at one of our gatherings! Have you brought along a friend?”

“Yes, actually,” Grace said, smiling slyly. She reached over to drag a wandering James back to her side. “My brother’s been wondering what your club looked like, so I thought I’d show him.”

Slughorn’s merry smile dropped in an instant. His lips puckered up into a very sour grimace. He preemptively reached for the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. “Oh, dear,” Slughorn murmured to himself, delicately dabbing at his temples.

“Cheers, Sluggy,” James said, downing a Butterbeer he had somehow managed to get a hold of. “So, this is what one of your parties looks like? Honestly—I thought it’d be a bit more lively.”

Slughorn stared down at James for one long moment. Grace half-thought the aged Potions master might kick him out. Instead, Slughorn merely harrumphed, dropped the handkerchief back into his pocket, and promptly disappeared back amongst the crowd of partygoers.

She gaped after him. “That was brilliant!” she said, turning to her brother with shining eyes. “He didn’t even _talk_ to you.”

James smiled smugly and took another swig of his Butterbeer. “You can’t just _choose_ to be a nuisance, Gracie. It’s something you’ve got to be born with.”

Grace didn’t doubt this in the slightest. James had been maddening since birth. “Do you think he’ll invite me to another one?” she asked.

James had caught sight of the chocolate fountain in the back, and was now speedily trampling students in his haste to get to it. Grace was hot on his heels. “Nah,” James said. “He’ll be worried you’ll invite me, too. He hates my guts.”

“Why?”

“He was testing our Dizziness Draught once, but Sirius and I gave him a potion that made his hair fall out instead.” James grinned. “Merlin, it was _hilarious_. The whole class was in stitches—except for Sluggy, of course. He’s got a very shiny head, you know.”

Grace snorted. “That’d do it.”

“You can do it, too,” James insisted. He was now filling his bottle of Butterbeer with chocolate from the fountain. Grace wrinkled her nose at the sugary concoction. “It’s just some Sleekeazy’s, but you’ve got to replace the—” his voice dropped to a low whisper, “—secret ingredient with wombat whiskers. It’ll reverse the effects.”

Grace was almost certain Regulus would kill her if she slipped Slughorn some hair-removal potion in class. “Er—maybe another time.”

James shrugged and began gulping down his chocolatey Butterbeer. He smacked his lips in surprise, brows lifted. “Huh,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”

“ _You’re_ disgusting,” a new voice muttered.

Grace and James both turned around and found Lily, bright and rosy as usual, and her Slytherin friend, the sallow boy with thin dark hair that Grace had often seen hanging around her. It was clear that the boy had spoken, because there was a sneer curling at his lips, and his eyes were trained on James with something like icy hatred.

James didn’t seem the least bit put-off. “Oh, Godric,” he complained loudly. “He invited you lot, too?” James clucked his tongue. His eyes roved over the sickly sweet decorations that had been put up. “Well, I suppose it shouldn’t come as any sort of surprise. We all knew that Sluggy’s taste is lacking.”

Grace nudged him sharply. “Be nice,” she commanded lowly, “or I’ll tell Mum.”

James’s shoulders sagged. He brought his tainted Butterbeer back to his lips.

For what it was worth, Lily at least didn’t seem very insulted. She waved at Grace. “Hello, Grace! I didn’t think you liked coming to these?”

Grace shrugged half-heartedly. “I promised Slughorn I’d come to this one. It seems alright so far.” Grace’s eyes flickered to the dour boy besides Lily. His eyes were narrowed at her, as though he was expecting Grace to, any minute now, come over and pants him. “Er—” Grace started awkwardly. She extended a hand towards him. “Hello. You must be Snivellus.”

Lily’s brows flew up. James let out an ungrateful snort, unintentionally spurting out some chocolate-infused Butterbeer.

Snivellus ground his teeth and spat, “ _What?_ ”

“Er—” Grace started nervously, locking eyes with James, who seemed to be having the time of his life, “—is that not…your name…?”

Snivellus—or whatever his real name was—turned on his heel and promptly left, muttering under his breath about ‘another Potter prat.’ Lily glanced darkly at James before following after her friend.

“Merlin’s pants!” James gasped, clutching at his sides. “Grace, that was so, _so_ funny! That was the funniest thing you’ve _ever_ done. Thank you so much for that. Wait till I tell Sirius—”

“You _twat_ ,” Grace seethed, glaring at him. “Why’d you never tell me that isn’t his real name?”

“It _is_ his real name, as far as I’m concerned,” James laughed. “Oh— _oh_ , Merlin—I can’t breathe, Grace—”

“Good,” she said flatly. “Stop breathing. Die, please.”

He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Did you _see_ the look on his face? That was priceless! I—” he fell into a new round of laughter, “—I need to ask Mum for a pocket Pensieve, so I can carry this memory around with me always.”

“I can’t believe this,” Grace muttered under her breath. She grabbed some cauldron cakes from the table and began munching on them angrily, watching James as he tried to catch his breath. “Why do you hate them so much? Lily and Sniv—er—her friend? Lily’s actually very nice.”

“It’s—well—” James stopped, taking a lungful of air. “Evans is _so_ pushy. She thinks she’s better than me or something, just because I like to have a bit of fun. She’s always, like—” his voice went up an octave as he tried to imitate her, “‘You can’t just charm students’ breakfast to fly away, Potter!’ or ‘Stop giggling in class, some of us are trying to _learn_!’” James rolled his eyes. “What good’s learning all this magic if you can’t actually use it? And—you know—I _know_ Evans isn’t as goody two-shoes as she’d like us all to think. _She_ vanished Sirius’s shoes when he was walking into the Great Hall on Monday. She thinks she’s so clever for it, too, I bet. We can’t _prove_ she did it, but I know she did.”

He finished his little tirade all in one breath. Almost unconsciously, he had stopped looking at Grace half-way through his speech, searching through the crowd of guests for that familiar head of red. There was a blush rising in his cheeks.

“Merlin’s beard,” Grace said slowly, staring at him. “You _like_ her, don’t you?”

“What? No!” James said hastily. His eyes snapped down to his sister like a whip. “That’s ridiculous. As if I’d like someone like _Evans_.”

Grace didn’t believe him in the slightest. “If you like her so much, why don’t you just talk to her like a normal person? Instead of your usual, prat-like self?”

He glared at her. “First of all, I _don’t_ like her. Second of all, if anyone’s the prat here, it’s you.”

“Oh, is it?” Grace countered. “When you call her best friend ‘Snivellus’ instead of his real name so much, enough to convince me that it _is_ his real name, that makes me the prat and not you?”

James pursed his lips. He grabbed at a cucumber sandwich and said, again, “I _don’t_ like her.”

“Yeah, and Erumpents can fly,” Grace muttered. “Good Godric, you’re a mess, James.”

“Whatever,” he said. He continued scanning through the crowd of people before brightening up. “Ah, there he is!”

“Who?”

“Snivellus,” James said as though it were obvious. He grabbed another cucumber sandwich and promptly stuffed it into his mouth before dashing forward.

“Wait!” Grace cried out. “Where are you going?”

“To get back at him,” James answered, already well over ten paces away from her. “He called me _disgusting_. I can’t just let that go unchecked.”

Grace stalked away in the opposite direction, lips pressed together into a tight, unhappy line. She wavered in and out of crowds of guests until she found Regulus near the back, thoughtfully examining some of the vials of example love potions Slughorn had curated. He was slowly eating some chocolate cake.

She sidled up next to him and very glumly said, “Hello.”

Regulus glanced up. “Hey—how’d your plan go?”

“It was good in the beginning. Slughorn seemed near a heart attack when I showed up with James, but then James started acting like his irritating self and now I’m tired of him.”

“I—”

“Told me, yeah. I know,” Grace said flatly. She surveyed the collection of love potions. “Isn’t it dangerous to have all these out here? What if someone steals them?”

Regulus pointed at a sign above the table. “There’s a warding charm. You can’t touch them.”

“Oh, well there goes that plan.”

Regulus turned to her sharply. “You can’t be _serious_ —” he stopped when he saw the grin burgeoning across Grace’s lips. “It’s not fair, you know,” he sniffed. “I can’t tell when you’re serious about a prank and when you’re not, because they’re all equally ridiculous.”

“I wouldn’t steal potions when there are like a dozen professors and Ministry people around.”

“I would think you would—just because it seems like a challenge.”

Grace couldn’t quite think of an argument against that. She simply shrugged and narrowed in Regulus’s cake. “Where’d you get that from?”

“Oh, there’s another table—” He began looking beyond Grace, trying to spot it, when, without any sort of warning or reason, he dropped his fork. His mouth fell open, and his eyes grew wide. “Oh, Salazar,” he said faintly.

Grace’s brows were furrowed. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“The Head Boy.”

“The Head Boy?” Grace wrinkled her nose. She’d never heard or seen the Head Boy or Head Girl before. Were they even real?

“Francisco Calderón,” Regulus explained hurriedly. “He’s the Head Boy, and he’s coming _here_.” His gaze returned to Grace frantically. “Why is he coming _here_?”

“To the party?” Grace said. “I dunno—probably because Slughorn invited him, right?”

“No, I mean to _us_!”

“What do you mean to us?” Grace said, and turned around for the first time.

Making his way around snack table was indeed the Head Boy. Grace knew this because of the bright crimson badge pinned to the front of his robes. He was tall with a slight frame and russet skin that gleamed under the soft light of the party. His hair was a mess of dark brown, flurried and messily tousled. Perched on his nose were a pair of circular, wire-rimmed glasses, and dangling from his left ear was a small, silver earring.

With a lurch, Grace realized she had seen this person before. This lean, cheery boy with the unkempt hair was the same one she had stumbled upon at the broom closet weeks ago. This was _Avery’s_ Francis.

“Er—” Grace started. She turned around, hoping violently that Calderón was making his way to some professor or Ministry official behind them, but there was nothing but a blank wall.

“ _Did you do something_?” Regulus hissed.

“What? Me?” Grace said wildly. “What could I have done?”

“I don’t know!”

“I didn’t do anything. I’ve only been here for fifteen minutes!”

“Then why’s he coming here?”

“I don’t know, Regulus!”

“Hello,” Calderón greeted.

Grace turned around so quickly she almost gave herself whiplash. “Hi,” she squeaked.

Regulus was at a loss for words. He waved limply.

Calderón’s eyes flitted between the two of them for a moment. “You’re not in trouble,” he said at last. “I mean—I’d hope that was obvious, given that we’re at a party.”

“Er—” both Grace and Regulus said.

“How are you two finding it?”

“Finding it?” Regulus echoed.

“The party,” Calderón explained. “How is it?”

“It’s nice…?” Grace said.

“ _Very_ nice,” Regulus added.

“That’s good,” the Head Boy said, apparently oblivious to how strange and disconcerting this conversation was. “Remind me—what date is it today?”

Grace glanced at Regulus helplessly.

Regulus squinted at Calderón questioningly. “Well…it’s Valentine’s Day…so it’s the fourteenth…right?”

“Oh, of course,” Calderón laughed. “Silly me. Thanks for that. You lot are very clever, I see.” Neither Regulus nor Grace knew how to respond to that, but it was fine because Calderón continued on and said, “One hundred points to Slytherin, then. For your cleverness.”

He winked at Grace and then turned around. He dug his hands into his pockets and disappeared back amongst the throng of guests, whistling merrily. Grace stared after him.

“D—did he—” Regulus spluttered, “—just give us _one hundred points_ for telling him the _date_?”

 _No_ , Grace thought, watching Calderón’s receding form. It had been for Avery. It had been a thank you to Grace for forgiving Avery or for keeping his secret or for just being a decent human being. It might have even been for all three.

Grace’s eyes pierced through the crowd quickly and easily. She saw Calderón slip amongst the pink and white curtains. He passed by Avery, who was leaned by a very small fountain topped with a cherub, and although the two did not speak to each other, did not even glance at one another, Grace thought she saw Calderón’s hand brush against Avery’s. Calderón disappeared amongst the hangings. A moment later, Avery followed.

She turned to Regulus, who still seemed starstruck. “I don’t know,” she said. There was a smile burgeoning across her lips. “Reckon his head’s shy a few Gobstones. Maybe that’s why Dumbledore chose him.”

“ _One hundred points_ ,” Regulus repeated dreamily.

Grace laughed.

After Regulus came out of his stupor, she had him show her to the enormous chocolate cake Madam Puddifoot had baked for the celebration. She had only just cut herself a slice when a shriek cut through the air.

She turned around and found, much to her distaste, that James had succeeded in getting back at Snivellus by charming his head to inflate to the size of a trunk. An absolutely outraged, red-faced Lily was now railing at James with the intensity of a hurricane. Several partygoers were staring at the duo. A Ministry official was frantically trying to deflate Snivellus’s head. Slughorn seemed about to faint.

Grace took a bite of her chocolate cake. “Love sure is something,” she commented absently.


	17. Ribbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace searches desperately for the perfect birthday present.

“Hello, prats,” Grace announced as she walked into the second-year Gryffindor boy’s dormitory.

Like always, the room was colored ceiling to floor in crimson and gold, crammed to the brim with an odd arrangement of textbooks and toys—things like plastic tea cups and rubber ducks—and smelled faintly of cinnamon and ash.

Grace made her way to James, who was sprawled on his bed, playing with a miniature Quaffle—at least, he _was_ playing with a miniature Quaffle. As soon as Grace announced her entrance, he lobbed the Quaffle away from him and groaned loudly.

“How do you keep managing to get in here?” James complained.

A sly smile slipped across Grace’s face. She was now getting the password to the Gryffindor tower every time it was changed from Avery, who, in turn, was getting it from his boyfriend. “Trade secret,” she replied easily, settling at the foot of James’s bed. She batted the scarlet hangings away from her face.

James scoffed.

Sirius was stretched out over the edge of his bed, rummaging through his trunk for something. He looked up briefly at Grace and James. “I reckon you’re just sneaking in whenever the Fat Lady opens the common room for a Gryffindor.”

“No, she opens it for me,” Grace said proudly. “Ask her yourself. She’s very annoyed that she’s got to let me in.”

“I’m not going to ask her,” James said resolutely. He nudged at Grace with his foot, and ignored her when she scowled at him. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got a question.”

“I’m flattered, really,” James said in a tone that conveyed he was more irritated than anything, “but it’s a bit late, isn’t it? And breaking into the Gryffindor tower seems like overkill. You could’ve just written me. Or asked me at breakfast.” 

“No, this is urgent,” Grace insisted, “besides it’s not a question for you. It’s a question for Sirius.”

“For me?” Sirius began, twisting towards Grace. He seemed oddly pleased. “Ah, I knew you’d come to me for advice sooner or later, seeing as I’m likely the wisest person you know.”

Remus, who was in his own bed with the hangings half-drawn, bent over some journal, looked over for the first time. “Godric,” he murmured in surprise. “This can’t be good.”

“Oi,” James said, “you think you’re wiser than me?”

“I’ve got boatloads of wisdom compared to you,” Sirius said sagely. 

“Do you remember when you told Slughorn a ghost stole your homework?”

“Do _you_ remember when Evans walked by and you—”

James coughed noisily and violently. “Er—sorry about that,” he said to no one in particular. The tips of his ears had turned red. “What is it you want, Grace?”

“Yes, what is it?” Sirius said with unusual solemnity. He rose from his trunk and righted himself on his bed, sitting cross-legged and opposite from Grace. He quirked a brow. “Boy trouble?”

James threw a pillow at Sirius, who deftly caught it. “What do you mean _boy_ —”

“As you well know, Regulus’s birthday is coming up soon, and I can’t think of a gift for him,” Grace cut in, growing impatient. “It’s really difficult, actually. I thought I’d get him some books, but he’s already got so many books. I want it to be better than that. Seeing as you’re his brother, I reckon you ought to know what it is he wants.”

“Huh,” Sirius said to himself, hugging James’s pillow. “I dunno. Truth be told, I was going to get him what I always get: treacle tart.” He pointed at her suddenly. “Don’t steal that, by the way.”

Grace stared at him, unimpressed. “I’m not getting him something we have for dessert every other night.”

“My treacle tart is _better_ than the Hogwarts one,” Sirius said defensively.

“You make it yourself?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?” Grace repeated. “How can you _kind of_ make it yourself?”

“Trade secret,” he said, echoing her words from earlier, and gave her an infuriating wink.

Grace bristled. “Do you have any present ideas that _aren’t_ rubbish?”

“Why don’t you just get him a rare book?” James said with heavy boredom. “If you’re short on allowance, I’ll give you some if you promise to stop coming in here.”

Grace considered this. “But _what_ rare book?”

“How am I supposed to know? Do I look like I read?”

“You can’t read?” Grace said with lifted brows. “Merlin, I knew you were a dunce, but—”

James narrowed her eyes at her. “You’re an even bigger dunce.”

“You—” Grace shoved at his legs, “—are the biggest dunce I’ve ever laid—”

At just that moment, a damp-haired Peter came from the bathroom. He caught sight of Grace and let out a tremendous cry of surprise.

“Oh, stop it,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes. “S’not like you came out in a towel or something.”

James snickered. Peter’s cheeks burned scarlet. Grace pursed her lips.

“You lot are absolutely _useless_ ,” Grace said crossly. She glowered at Sirius. “There isn’t _one thing_ you can think of that Regulus would want for his birthday?”

“Well…” he started, scratching at the back of his head.

“Yes?”

“The best present for Regulus would probably be to just leave him alone.”

“Leave him alone?” Grace repeated.

“Yeah, Regulus loves alone time. He loves it when no one’s around to bother him. That way, he can just be by himself and enjoy his books instead of having to put up with someone’s rambling.”

“You want me…for his _birthday_ …to just leave him alone?” Grace said skeptically.

Remus let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Yes, Moony?” Sirius said with feigned politeness. “Is there something you’d like to tell the class?”

He flung a pillow at Sirius. The throw was so sudden that Sirius didn’t manage to see or intercept it in time; the pillow hit him in the back of the head.

“You’ve wounded me!” Sirius cried out dramatically, flopping onto his bed.

“Nice shot,” James said appreciatively.

“Just because someone values some peace and quiet,” Remus told Sirius dryly, “doesn’t mean they’d want to be left all alone for their birthday.”

“So what _would_ they want for their birthday?” Grace piped in.

“I don’t know,” Remus said honestly. “Maybe you should just ask Regulus himself? If there’s anything he’d really want for his birthday?”

Grace frowned. “But then it wouldn’t be a surprise. He’d know that that’s what I was getting for him. Or—” her eyes grew wide and troubled, “—suppose he tells me he wants the new Nimbus model? I don’t have enough pocket money for that! He’ll be expecting it, and then he’ll be so disappointed when he doesn’t—”

“That’s a really good idea,” Sirius said with lit eyes. “I should get him the new Nimbus model.”

“Hold on,” Grace protested. “What about your treacle tart?”

“Sod the treacle tart. You can do that. I get it from Honeydukes.”

“What? You said you made it yourself!”

“I said I _kind of_ made it myself. In that I pick it up, put it in a nice box with wrapping paper, and give it to Regulus.”

“That’s not—you’re not actually contributing to the _making_ of the tart,” Grace spluttered. She threw her head back, collapsing onto James’s bed, pushing her brother to the side. “Merlin, this is a disaster. I can’t find a present. Sirius doesn’t actually know how to make treacle tart. James can’t _read_.”

“Go _away_ ,” James complained, trying vainly to budge Grace.

“What about you, Peter?” Grace asked, staring into the crimson canopy of James’s bed.

“Me?” the fair-haired boy squeaked.

“No,” Grace said sarcastically, “the _other_ Peter in the room.”

“Er—well,” Peter started anxiously, “perhaps you could just get him some products from Zonko’s?”

Sirius snorted. “Joke products? For Regulus? That’s a surefire way to get him to hate your guts.”

“I’m telling you,” James said, “just get him some book. I’ll order it myself. Just—” he pushed at Grace, sending her tumbling over the edge of his bed, “—get _off_ my bed.”

Grace caught herself by the pillar before she could fall. She rose and glared venomously at James, who returned the favor with a rude gesture.

“I just want help getting a present!” she complained. “And there are _four_ of you in here, and none of you can help me.”

“What makes you think we could have helped you?” James demanded.

“Sirius is Regulus’s _brother_!”

“Yeah, but he can’t read Regulus’s mind, can he?” James challenged. “It’s not like _I_ always know what _you_ want for your birthday. Remus was right: you should just ask Regulus.”

“I _can’t_ ask Regulus!” Grace frowned. “Regulus didn’t ask me what I wanted for my birthday last month, and he still managed to get me a great present.”

“What’d he get you?” Sirius asked curiously.

“An auto-complete quill,” Grace said. When Grace was midway through a written sentence, the quill would finish it off all by itself. It was prone to mistakes, but only a few. On the whole, it was rather great, and managed to cut down the amount of time Grace took to write essays by half. It had very quickly become one of her most prized possessions.

“What!” Sirius cried out. “I’ve been asking for that for _years_ , and he hasn’t gotten me one!”

“Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you get him store-bought treacle tart every year,” Grace bit.

“You know what? I refuse to be shamed for that. The treacle tart that Honeydukes makes is bloody _amazing_. Regulus is blessed he’s got me for an older brother.”

Grace stared at him for one long moment before slowly shaking her head. She marched away from James’s bed and carried herself to the threshold of the dormitory. She looked back at the four Gryffindors who let her down.

“James,” she began with exaggerated sorrow, “you ought to learn how to read, or you won’t graduate—”

“That was a _joke_!” He scowled and threw his remaining pillow at Grace. She artfully ducked out of sight, and proceeded down the stairs.

She took two steps at a time, thoughts swirling on potential presents for Regulus. She’d already been through two catalogs—one from Flourish & Blotts and the other from Scribbulus Writing Instruments—with nothing to show for. She didn’t want to get Regulus just another book or quill or roll of parchment. She was almost certain that’s what his other friends or family members would get him.

Grace slipped through the Gryffindor common room, taking care to hide the Slytherin crest emblazoned on her robes. She was almost at the foot of the portrait hole, when she caught sight of Lily by the fireplace, a textbook by her side and a scroll of parchment in her lap.

“Lily!” Grace called, walking towards her. “Could I ask you something?”

The redhead started at the noise. She twisted to Grace and furrowed her brows. “Who’s giving you our passwords? This must be the fourth time I’ve seen you in here.”

Grace merely shrugged, instead slumping besides Lily on the crimson sofa. “I _desperately_ need your help, Lily. I’ve just come from a meeting with four idiots—”

She raised a brow. “I’m assuming you’ve been to see your brother?”

Grace nodded. “You see—I’m trying to find my friend a present.” She brightened for a moment. “You met him, actually! He was with me when the common room had all those Stinksap-spewing plants. You Scourgified his robes for him.”

Lily’s forehead creased. “Oh, right…is he related to Sirius by any chance? When I saw him, I thought for a moment it _was_ Sirius…until he opened his mouth and spoke politely.”

Grace snorted. “Yeah, that’s Sirius’s brother. He’s in Slytherin with me. He likes books and color-coding his notes. I _thought_ I should just get him a book for his birthday, but I’m certain he’s been getting books his whole life. I want to get him something different, but I don’t know what.” She peered up at Lily. “Do you happen to have any ideas?”

Grace watched Lily digest this information. The older girl chewed on the end of her pen thoughtfully, her free hand drumming against the open textbook to her left.

“I don’t really think there’s any present I can suggest,” Lily said at last. “After all, this is _your_ friend, not mine. The only advice I can really give you, Grace, is to just trust yourself. You know your friend. I’m sure he’ll appreciate whatever you come up with.”

Grace’s heart, which had been eagerly awaiting Lily’s response, deflated in an instant. Lily wasn’t wrong, per se…it was just that her counsel wasn’t very useful, practically speaking. Grace was certain that Regulus would appreciate whatever she gave him. But she didn’t want him to just _appreciate_ it. She wanted him to _love_ it. She wanted him to burst into a smile. She wanted to give him a present he’d never, ever forget.

Grace smiled hesitantly. “Er—thanks, Lily. I guess I’ll just think on it some more.”

Lily nodded in approval. “You’ll get it,” she said encouragingly.

Grace wasn’t so sure.

* * *

“Alright, alright—I’ll stop, sir,” Grace said, “but could you first just tell me if your death was caused by any animal-related incident? Because, if not, I can cross out a bunch of these.”

She lifted her parchment, which was scribbled with dozens of possible scenarios in which Binns could have died instead of History of Magic notes. Several students in the back row burst out laughing.

Binns let out a ghostly sigh. “It was _not_ an animal-related incident. Now, may I continue the lecture?”

“Only if you have to, sir,” Grace said, but he was already mid-sentence about some or the other troll war. Grace let out a disgruntled breath and began to meticulously cross out all the possible creature-related deaths she had written down.

“There, I’m done!” Dirk announced, handing back Grace her auto-complete quill. “That was quick, right?”

“Very quick,” Grace said, tucking her quill safely into her knapsack. “This quill is a life-saver. I’m going to get a ton for next year.” She peered over at Dirk’s part of the Defense project they had been assigned and nodded approvingly. “That looks nice and lengthy. Hopefully, it’ll make up for our _last_ project.”

Their last assignment had been hastily written at the end of History of Magic, and was missing sections that detailed the appearance and effect of gorgons, much to Sanderson’s displeasure.

“Hopefully it’ll make up for all our projects,” Dirk said. “We’ve sort of been putting in half the effort we should be since the start of the year.”

“Yeah, well whose fault is that?” Grace said. “You write at the pace of a _slug_.”

“Look,” he said rather defensively, “it takes _time_ for me to think such great thoughts, you know? No one just handed da Vinci a blank canvas and had him paint the Mona Lisa in an hour.”

“The Mona What?” Grace said.

“Oh, God,” Dirk said, rolling his eyes and resting his chin into the palm of his hand, “you pure-bloods are so uncultured.”

Grace decided to ignore this slight in favor of saying, “Hey, you’re a first-year and a boy, Dirk, so—”

“Did it take you that long to notice?”

“ _So_ ,” she continued rather loudly, shooting him a glare, “I was wondering what sort of presents you like?”

“I want a time-turner,” Dirk said instantly.

Grace choked on nothing but air. “What the—did you say _time-turner_? Do you think I can afford a time-turner? I’m working with a budget of about thirty Galleons here!”

Dirk’s shoulders slumped. “You can’t get one, then? Shame. I’ve been wanting to try one since I read an op-ed about them in the _Prophet_. Did you know some people have gotten stuck in the past?”

“Dirk, I’m not actually asking you what _you_ want. I’m just trying to get an idea of what _Regulus_ might want for his birthday.”

“How am I supposed to know what _your_ friend wants? I can only go off of my own experiences and wants, Grace, and my heart is telling me a time-turner would make a damn good present.”

“I can’t get one of those,” she said exasperatedly. “You need permits from the Ministry or something. It would take months for me to complete the paperwork alone, and I’ve only got five days!” She paused and added, “What else does your heart say?”

“My heart wants to learn goblin language,” Dirk said thoughtfully. “So maybe a book on Gobbledegook?”

“I’ll keep that in mind for _your_ birthday, but, seriously, what would make a good present for someone who’s _not_ you?”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Dirk started dryly, “not _all_ first-year boys want the same thing for their birthdays. I’m certain your friend doesn’t like the same things I do.”

Grace deflated. “You’re right. I—it’s just that I’m sort of out of options here. And time is running out!”

“You know what could help with that?”

“What?”

“A time-turner,” he said wisely.

* * *

“It’s no use!” Grace cried out, unhappily shoveling apple pie into her mouth. “I’m doomed!”

It was well past the middle of the night. Grace now had only four days to figure out what to get Regulus for his birthday, and she was no closer to a decision than she was two days ago, when she had first gone to Sirius for advice.

“Does Miss Grace need help?” Pokey asked worriedly, flitting around a dismayed Grace uselessly. “More pie?”

“Oh, Pokey,” Grace said, putting down her plate. “I’m trying to get a present for Regulus, but I don’t know _what_. All my other friends have turned out to be dead awful at getting presents.”

Grace let out a groan and collapsed onto the floor of the Hogwarts kitchens. She lay spreadeagled, boring holes into the pristine white of the ceiling. To her right, the hearth flickered warmly, casting her in a brilliant glow. On her left, hundreds of house-elves shuffled around, carrying empty bowls and clean utensils.

“Do _you_ know what I should get Regulus?” she asked Pokey.

“ _Pokey_? Miss Grace is asking Pokey?”

Grace nodded glumly. “If you’ve got even a shred of an idea, I’ll take it. I’m _desperate_.” She heaved a sigh. “Do you think if I ask St. Mungo’s, they’ll change Regulus’s date of birth by a week? I really need the extra time.”

“Pokey thinks Mister Regulus will like any present Miss Grace gives him.”

Grace let out another great groan, startling Pokey. “That’s what _everyone_ says. I _know_ Regulus will _say_ he likes whatever I get him. If I got him toenail clippings, he’d smile and say it’s a creative present or something, but that doesn’t mean he _actually_ liked it, does it?”

“Er—Pokey is thinking—”

“Maybe I should just get him a book after all. But—” she shot up from the floor, “—I can’t! I can’t just get him a book. He’ll look at it and smile and say he likes it. But, later, when I go into the boy’s dormitory, I’ll see that he’s gotten ten different copies of the _same book_ for his birthday. And then who’s the idiot?” She turned to Pokey wildly. “Not James, not Sirius. _Me_! I’m the idiot! I can’t be the idiot, Pokey!”

“Miss Grace—”

“I should just get him the new Nimbus, shouldn’t I?” Grace’s shoulders sagged. “But I’d have to ask Mum and Dad to get it for me, because I don’t have enough allowance, and I dunno if they’d get it just for a friend of mine. They only _barely_ let James get one, and he’s their son!” Grace leaned forward and bit the inside of her cheek. “I suppose I could ask James if he would pool his allowance with mine. Maybe if I asked Sirius to do a joint gift with him, he’d pitch in some money, too.” She twisted to Pokey. “What do you think?”

“Pokey had an idea, Miss Grace.” There was a grin blossoming across the house-elf’s face. “In Hogwarts, there is a room, Miss, that gives a person whatever they need.”

“What?” Grace said, brows drawn together. “What do you mean?”

“Pokey will show Miss Grace!” The house-elf reached for Grace enthusiastically, and Grace let her take her hand.

Pokey led Grace out of the kitchens. They traveled up and up, past the statue of the one-eyed witch that led to Honeydukes, past the mirror room that the Smugglers’ Society met behind, until they reached the seventh floor. The young house-elf showed Grace down the left corridor. She stopped abruptly, in the center of the hallway, just opposite a rather dreadful tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, and gestured proudly at the bare, stone wall.

“Er—” Grace said, touching the surface, “—no offense, Pokey, but I think this is just a wall.”

“No, no,” Pokey said. “Miss Grace must walk by the wall and think of what she needs three times. Then, the Room will appear.”

“The Room?” Grace questioned.

“The Come and Go Room,” Pokey explained. “Hogwarts cares for its students, Miss Grace. Over here—” her small, purple hand wavered over the stone of the wall, “—a room will appear for students who need it most. If Miss Grace asks, the Room will give her a present for Mister Regulus!”

Grace blinked in surprise. She glanced back the wall curiously. “Well, alright,” she shrugged. “There’s no harm in giving it a go, I suppose.”

She took a deep breath and took a step back before walking by the wall. Her eyes flickered shut. _I need to find a birthday present_ , she thought fiercely, passing by the stone. _I need to find the perfect birthday present. I need to find the most perfect birthday present in existence._

When Grace opened her eyes, she found a door that hadn’t been there before. She glanced down at Pokey, who was teeming with excitement. “See, Miss!” Pokey said. “The Room helps!”

“The Room helps,” Grace agreed. For the first time that day, hope flooded her bones. “Thank you, Pokey! Really—you’ve just saved me.”

“Pokey is happy Miss Grace is happy.” The house-elf gestured at the door. “Miss Grace can explore now. Pokey must go and finish dishes.”

“Okay,” Grace nodded. “I’ll see you later.”

Pokey disappeared back down the hallway. Grace turned to the door and grasped at the silver doorknob. She pulled it open and stepped inside.

The Room was vast and seemingly endless. From her position at the front, Grace couldn’t make out any back wall. Despite this, the Room seemed completely full with items. There was broken furniture stacked haphazardly across the floor, dressers stuffed with discarded chess sets and rusty trophies, broken bottles that must have fallen from somewhere, what seemed to be an arrangement of ancient swords, and so much more. There were books here, too. Hundreds of them, in fact, spanning across the Room in bookshelves and unsteady piles that seemed only a too-heavy breath away from toppling over. 

“This is just junk!” she exclaimed to no one.

She huffed and sat down on a teetering stool that had been hastily pushed by the door. Perhaps the perfect present _was_ hidden in this room. But Grace could hardly be expected to sit around and rummage for it for hours on end! And, besides, all of this stuff seemed to be _used_. Grace couldn’t give Regulus some secondhand present.

Grace’s gaze swung over the Room. Perhaps she could show the Room as a gift to Regulus? He’d definitely find it fascinating, and would probably enjoy trying to dig up information about it in the library.

Grace thought about it for a few more minutes before coming to the conclusion that, no, she couldn’t _gift_ the Room to Regulus. She could show it to him, of course, but it wasn’t some heirloom she could just pass on to someone. No, no—Grace had to find something for Regulus herself, something that was new and her own to give. Something that he would cherish and enjoy.

She hefted her one millionth sigh of the day. It was easier said than done.

* * *

Later, out of sheer desperation, Grace ordered a copy of _Reading Runes: An Amateur’s Almanac to the Ancient Alphabet_ and a few volumes about tactical Quidditch from Obscurus Books. When morning came and Grace realized how _dull_ her choice in presents was, she began to seriously consider cancelling her order and resigning from Hogwarts so she would not have to face Regulus on the morn of his birthday.

Luckily, before she could go to Dumbledore’s office and tender her resignation, she realized with a start that it was Friday. There was still one person that could help Grace: Andromeda Black.

Andromeda, whom Regulus spoke fondly of, who had fed Grace snippets of advice about the art of concealment, who likely had all her family’s secret stored into the treasure vault of her heart— _she_ would know what Regulus wanted. She would know what Regulus pined for, and she would tell Grace. And then Grace would not have to drop out of Hogwarts after all.

With a full heart, Grace set about her day, speedily going through class after class, half-listening to professors, willing time to move on faster, until she finally got to Divination.

She scrambled through the trap door, practically _leaping_ towards the table in the far corner. Andromeda, to her dismay, was not there yet. But Ted was, which Grace faintly pinged as being a little strange—having one without the other. She had long assumed they both came from the same class.

“Where’s Andromeda?” Grace burst when she was close enough to Ted.

He looked up at her, startled, and blinked owlishly. “Er—sorry?”

“Andromeda,” Grace repeated with the desperation of a mother whose child has gone missing. “Where is she? I need her!”

Ted’s brows flew up. “Need her? What for?”

Grace collapsed in the chair besides Ted, shoulders slumped, mouth in an unhappy little pout. “I need her help. Is she being held back by a professor?”

“No, not exactly.” He looked back down at his small moleskin journal, and resumed his scribbling. “She’s feeling a bit—er—unwell.”

“ _What_?” Grace burst. “You mean she’s not coming to class?”

Ted’s head shot back up. “No, probably not—”

“Why not? If she’s only a _bit_ unwell?” she demanded. Ted’s lips set into a small grimace, and a pinprick of guilt eased its way into Grace’s heart. “Er—I mean,” she said, “is she okay? It’s nothing serious, is it?”

“No, no,” he assured, returning to his writing. “Just a check-up.”

“A check-up? But if she’s feeling ill, then why’s it a—”

“Aha!” Vablatsky said, slamming the door to her back room open. She strode forward and gazed upon her class triumphantly. “I got that dratted clock fixed, so there’ll be no more late starts to class.” As she walked towards the center of the class, Fabian silently pointed his wand at the grandfather clock in the back of the room, magicking the minute hand back a bit. “What’s this?” Vablatsky said, pale eyes sweeping over the class. “We’re one short today?”

Ted set down his journal on the table. Grace glanced down at it and saw, to her utter confusion, he hadn’t been writing down any notes or thoughts like one would in a proper diary. It was filled with _names_ : Atalanta and Aquila and Adrasteia and so on.

“Andromeda’s feeling a bit sick today,” Ted said helpfully.

“Oh, I see—”

“But you didn’t _See_ ,” Gideon pointed out. “Otherwise you would’ve known.”

“Is it just that you can’t _help_ but say all the thoughts that run through your head?” Avery asked. “I’m genuinely asking.”

“I’ll have you know,” Gideon sniffed, “that loads of people find me witty and—”

“I wouldn’t really call you and your brother ‘loads of people’—”

“Sweet Circe,” Vablatsky said. “Maybe I shouldn’t come to class on time, if we’ll just be wasting the time with bantering.”

“Brilliant idea, Professor,” Fabian picked up. “I propose we all push back the start time to class by fifteen minutes.”

Vablatsky raised a brow at him. “You mean by thirty minutes? Don’t think I didn’t notice you push back the clock, Mr. Prewett.” She waved her wand, and the clock reset itself to the proper time. She cleared her throat and continued, “Anyway, with Miss Black out of commission, I suppose we can simply have student pairs.” Fabian and Gideon were already inching away from Khan. “No,” Vablatsky said immediately, catching hold of them, “I’ll still be separating you two. Mr. Khan, you can go with Fabian this time. Mr. Avery, with Gid—”

“Merlin, _why_?” Avery said, aghast. “What’ve I done?”

“You seem to get on so well,” Vablatsky said simply, shrugging. “Alright, students, let’s begin! As I’m left without a partner, I’ll simply be monitoring your progress. Although—” her eyes twinkled, “—if any of you would _like_ a reading done by me, I am more than happy to oblige.”

“Don’t try your nonsense on me,” Avery told Gideon warningly as the redhead settled at the former’s table.

Gideon let out a lengthy yawn. “Oh, please, Avery—as if you’re worth the _time_.” He paused and added thoughtfully, “But if _you_ try something, I’ll have you know I’m very well-versed in dueling.”

Avery pursed his lips. “You know what, Prewett? Let’s save ourselves a trip to the Hospital Wing and make ourselves a deal.”

Gideon’s brows raised. “A deal, you say?”

“You’d like a passing N.E.W.T. for this class, wouldn’t you?”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Avery said lightly, passing his tarot cards between his hands, “that I can make that happen.”

It took a moment, but Gideon was soon nodding. He leaned forward. “Alright, let’s talk.”

Avery’s voice dropped to a shadow of a whisper. Grace’s eyes flickered back to Ted, and then to the seat where Andromeda would have been sitting. _There goes my last chance_ , she thought, staring stonily at the empty chair.

“Let’s begin?” Ted said.

“What’s the point?” Grace murmured glumly.

His brows rose. “Er—alright, how about I start and…why don’t you just…relax?” Ted suggested. “And think of something to ask while I shuffle these up.”

Grace leaned forward and propped her chin in her hand. Her eyes flickered to a close. Intensely, almost viciously, she thought, _What present should I get for Regulus? Show me what present I should get for him. These blasted cards better show me something from a Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment catalog, or so help me—_

“Er—you don’t need to look so angry while you’re thinking.”

Grace cracked open a lid, and saw that Ted had his cards spread out. “Can I pick now?”

“Go for it.”

Grace hurriedly tapped on three, and eagerly waited for Ted to turn them over.

Ted reached for the first one. It was just a bunch of swords clattering atop a craggy, black hill. There was a wolf underneath, howling and pawing at a final sword that had been hidden deep into the rock.

“Ah,” Ted said smilingly, “the seven of—”

“Yeah, okay,” Grace said hurriedly. “Can you just flip them all over now? I want to see.”

He quirked a brow at her but did as told. The second card was of a dreadfully dressed boy with a single goblet in hand. For reasons beyond Grace’s understanding, there was a silver-backed fish leaping from the goblet. The boy seemed very pleased by this.

The third card also featured cups—two of them this time. They were set atop some sort of cliffside and, again, there were animals bursting from the rim. It was two snakes, one from each goblet, and as they traveled upwards, the became entwined in one another. The sun beat down on the scene heavily.

“No, no!” Grace wailed, sinking further into her seat. “This isn’t helpful at all!”

“It’s not?” Ted said, glancing at the last card. He lifted it up. “But you’ve got the two of goblets—that looks like unity and oneness and—”

“I can’t very well give two goblets with snakes bursting out of them as a present!” Grace exploded. “What am I meant to do, Ted? I need to find Regulus a present and _fast_. I’ve only got a few more days left. And since I’m so late on it, I’ll probably have to pay extra for whatever I get him so I can get express delivery. Merlin, I’m done for!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ted slowed, setting down the card. “Is this what you wanted Andromeda for? Advice about what to get for her cousin?”

She nodded glumly. “I’ve asked literally _everyone_. Just my luck I’ve got friends who are absolutely rotten with presents. Andromeda was my last hope. She’s sensible.”

“Honestly,” Ted said, clearing his throat. “If you’re looking for someone to help you get a present for a member of the Black family, then there’s really no one better than me.”

She glanced at him, somewhat suspicious. “You?”

“Yes,” Ted insisted. “I’ve been sneaking Dromeda gifts for _years_. I know full well how you’ve got to shop for her family. I reckon you’ve got to get a gift for Regulus that his parents won’t suspect came from someone they wouldn’t approve up?”

“Sweet Circe,” Grace said, eyes wide, “I didn’t even _think_ of that.”

“Ah,” Ted said, leaning back in his chair with a sly smile. “Then it’s a lucky thing that I’m here today.”

“Alright,” Grace agreed, nodding. If Andromeda was not here, she supposed Ted was the next best thing. “What do you suggest I get, then?”

“Hmm,” Ted said, considering it. The tarot cards lay between them, long forgotten. “Okay, my go-to is usually getting Andromeda something that she likes or expressed interest in but hasn’t been able to get because her parents would pull a strop over—like Muggle candy or Muggle books or…well, anything Muggle-related, really.”

“But I can’t do that. If I give Regulus something his parents wouldn’t like—well, what if they find it? They’d be _furious_ about it.”

Ted’s eyes were lit. He tapped at his temple. “That’s where you’ve got to use your brains.”

“I do?”

“Oh, yes,” he nodded. “If you give Regulus something his parents wouldn’t like, then you’ve got to disguise it. I once gave Andromeda a thick book about wizard politics, but the center of the pages were hollowed out to make room for a locket I got her.”

“Ted, you’re a _genius_!” Grace beamed. “That’s brilliant. That’s—that’s _actually_ helpful.”

“Oh, come now—you’re making me blush,” he said, gathering up his cards. “Now that I’ve solved your problem, shall we try a _real_ reading?”

“Sure, but can I do one for you?” Grace pulled out her own deck. “I’ve been practicing, but I still need to get the meanings down right.” She glanced up at him. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask someone—do you have a trick for remembering them all?”

“What?”

“A memory trick,” Grace said, “for remembering what all the different cards are supposed to represent. It’s just that—” she spread the mountain of cards between her hands, “—there are a _lot_.”

“Oh, I haven’t memorized them,” Ted said, fair brows furrowed. “Why would you?”

“Er—so I know how to read the cards? Don’t you need to know what each card means in order to be able to answer the question that was asked?”

“You can read the cards without memorizing their meanings,” he assured. “Look at this one, for example.” He picked up the first card Grace had picked. “Seven of swords: it’s got six of the swords up top on a rock, but there’s a seventh burrowed deep in the rock, almost camouflaged in there. There’s a wolf that’s noticed it, though.” Ted hummed quietly to himself, considering it. “Now, it could be the card is saying you’ll find something out, that you’ll discover something that’s been hidden, perhaps even something deadly. But I think, for your question, what it’s saying is that you’ll hide something very well.” He smiled. “It’s probably referring to the present you’ll get for Regulus.”

Grace found her version of the same card in her deck. It was completely different: there was no wolf, just a lanky youth in a yellow tartan robe and a clashing scarlet cap sneaking away from some village with four swords in his arms. The other two were beyond the village fence.

“But mine is different,” she said, showing her card to him. “See, it doesn’t have the wolf or the rock. How can I do readings based on what the cards show if all the decks are different?”

“They’re all fundamentally the same. Look—” he pointed at the boy who was tiptoeing away from the town, “—this one is still showing you some sort of deception. Besides, it doesn’t really matter what _your_ cards show, because you didn’t use your cards when we did the reading. You used mine.”

Her forehead was lined in confusion. “What do you mean? What does it matter if we used mine or yours?”

“When you pick the cards, you’re Seeing. _Something_ —” he gestured in the air, “—is guiding you to pick the right cards. Since we were using my deck, you chose the cards with the best meanings for you. If we were using your deck but you asked the same question, I would think _all_ the cards would turn out to be different.”

“Oh,” Grace said quietly. She supposed that was why Avery had cautioned her into getting a better deck.

“If it’s meant to be, the right cards will be chosen no matter what,” Ted continued easily. “What’s important is that the reader knows _their_ deck, not someone else’s.” He flipped through his own cards. “And you can’t know your deck by just memorizing the meanings. You’ve got to form a connection with the cards. You’ve got to make your own meanings.”

* * *

Grace was patiently waiting on the seventh floor of the castle for Regulus to arrive. The present she had gotten for him was seated securely in her knapsack. She was almost certain that her gift, along with the Come and Go Room, would be the best he had ever received.

“Grace!” Regulus greeted cheerily as he came up from the stairwell. “You won’t _believe_ what Sirius got me—”

“Treacle tart?”

He blinked, faltering. “What? How do you know about that?”

“We had a conversation about presents,” she said simply. “Is that what he got you? Because, if you’re disappointed, don’t worry. I’ve got something _much_ better.”

He shook his head. “No, no. He usually gets me that, but today—” his eyes grew wide, “—he got me the _new Nimbus model_.”

Grace’s lips pursed. “Did he now?” she said rather dryly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m honestly shocked. I can’t figure out how he got enough money for it. I hope he hasn’t put himself into debt for it.”

Grace’s best guess was that either Sirius asked his parents for more money, had been conning students out of their money for the past two years, or had borrowed a few extra Galleons from James.

“So,” Regulus said, peering about the open space of the castle. “What is it you wanted to show me?” He glanced at her. “It’s nothing—” he searched for a word and settled on, “—Grace-like, is it?”

“What do you mean ‘Grace-like’?”

“I dunno, like—” he waved his hands in the air uselessly, “—like you didn’t smuggle the Great Squid into the castle for me, did you?”

“I don’t know if the Great Squid would even _fit_ in the castle,” she said honestly. “And, no, your present is not _Grace-like_. It’s very distinctly Regulus-like, alright?”

He considered this and finally said, “Alright, where is it?”

“First, I’ve got to show you something.”

He glanced at her warily.

“You’re going to love this,” she promised. “Really.”

She pulled him down the corridor on the left, and stopped opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, gesturing proudly at the bare wall.

He stared at it. “I’m guessing this isn’t _just_ a wall?”

“Observant of you,” she noted. “Watch this.”

She closed her eyes and passed under the section Pokey had pointed out and thought, _I need a nice room for a party. Like, a quiet little party, not a real party. Okay, more of a sitting room than anything._

“Sweet Circe!” Regulus exclaimed. “Was that door there before?”

Grace opened her eyes and beamed as she saw the familiar door of polished mahogany fitted into the hallway like it had been there since the castle was built instead of having just appeared a few seconds ago. She reached for the doorknob. “Come and see,” she told Regulus eagerly. “Pokey showed it to me. They call it the Come and Go Room. It only appears when you ask for it three times.”

They stepped in and Grace saw, to her delight and fascination, that the Room had done what she had asked. It wasn’t a dim spare room filled with junk like last time. Now, it was bright and flush with light. It was a homely little sitting area with plush deep green sofas and a swell of candles.

There were a few streamers hung in the air, too—tasteful silver ones—and a coffee table settled between the large sofas. Grace dashed and leapt onto one of them, sighing with content as she sunk deep into the plush material.

“This is amazing,” Regulus breathed, slowly trailing after Grace. His eyes were flickering to every corner of the room, cataloguing each and every sight, filing it away for analysis later. “Has this always been here?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Is it not mentioned in _Hogwarts: A History_?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. He sat down across from Grace, somewhat stupefied. “I can’t believe you’ve found this. It’s incredible.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Well, I didn’t _really_ find it. Pokey showed it to me, after all.”

“Still,” he insisted. “I reckon not many people know about this. At least, I don’t think Sirius knows about this, and he’s discovered pretty much every hiding spot Hogwarts has to offer.”

“I think so, too. James has never mentioned it. Anyway—” her eyes lit up and she reached within her bag, “—let me give you your present.”

“Oh.” And, just for the sake of pretense, he said, “You didn’t _have_ to—”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Of course I had to. You got me a wicked present for mine, after all. What sort of friend would I be if I showed up on your birthday empty-handed?” She turned to him, clutching her gift in her hands. “Happy birthday,” she said warmly, and handed him a volume of five books, tied together with a thick green ribbon. “I hope you like it.”

He pulled at the end of the ribbon, letting it fall away, and picked up the first book. It was _Reading Runes_ , the book she had ordered from the shop in Diagon Alley. She watched Regulus’s expression very carefully. There was a shadow of a smile lingering at his lips; his hand ghosted over the embellished, silver-lined cover.

“This is wicked,” he said appreciatively. “It’ll come in handy, Grace. Thanks—”

“Why don’t you open it?” she said, and couldn’t help the smile that was creeping across her face.

He glanced at her. “Er—okay?” He opened to the first page, and his grey eyes spread over the first few sentences: “In an orchard, there was an apple tree. In the tree—” he stopped abruptly and turned to Grace with shining. “Salazar! Grace, this is— _Grace_ —”

“Yes?” she probed, grinning widely.

“This is the _Miraculous Mage_!” he burst excitedly, and then he took the next book from the set Grace had got him. Emblazoned on the cover was the title: _The Quagmire of Quidditch_. Regulus hurriedly flipped to the first page, and his smile grew wider. “And this is the second in the series! Merlin’s beard—did you—?” his gaze traveled to the remaining three books.

“They’re the five of the series,” Grace confirmed, beaming. “See, I remember you told me that they’re your favorite books but your mum won’t let you have copies of your own since they’re for kids. _So_ , I—”

“You swapped their covers with ones from boring books,” he completed. “That’s _brilliant_.”

Her heart was warm and full. “Thanks,” she said. She pulled out the paper text of the waste books and showed them to Regulus. “I’ve got the pages for _Reading Runes_ and the other books, in case you want those, too. I’m certainly never going to take Ancient Runes, so if you don’t want them, they’re going in the fireplace.”

Regulus took them, either because he really did think it’d be useful for later on or because he couldn’t bear the thought of Grace burning a book.

“This is _brilliant_ ,” he said again. His eyes were skimming through the first _Miraculous Mage_ book. “Is this a new version? It’s got footnotes.”

“Yeah, it’s a critical edition,” Grace said. “It’s got commentary from other writers, and the footnotes are from the author’s notes—”

“The _author’s_?” He seemed about to faint. His fingers traced over the bottom of the page. “You mean to tell me that Finnegan Marlcaster wrote these footnotes himself?”

“Well, I suppose so.” She glanced at him. “You like it, right? I wasn’t sure if I should have gone for the first edition or this one, but I thought you’d like to hear the author’s additions and—”

“I _love_ it. Thank you,” Regulus said earnestly. His face was the most carefree Grace had ever seen. The soft, small smile she was used to seeing was now full-blown—bright and cheery. “Thank you for showing me this room and for getting me the whole _Miraculous Mage_ series and, most of all, for being my best friend.”

It was so wonderfully tender, so sincere and heartfelt, that Grace could almost feel her heart swell in size. There was a burst of warmth in her chest, and she thought, perhaps, that this was what James had with his friends.

She grabbed Regulus into a hug. “Thanks for being my best friend, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read! I hope you're still enjoying the story! This chapter and the last have been a bit shorter than usual; sorry for that -- I'm just trying to establish character relationships and have Grace happy for a while because things are going to go a bit sideways soon
> 
> Let me know what you think! :)


	18. Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prewetts launch a school-wide treasure hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments; they really mean a lot! Keep letting me know your thoughts :)

For James’s birthday, Grace decided to give her older brother the gift of embarrassment.

She had been planning her surprise for a few weeks now. She had initially roped Regulus into helping her do an intricate display of spellwork in the Great Hall, but then Regulus reminded her that they were only first-years and the most they could manage to do was, perhaps, transfigure James’s goblet into a frog—and that was if they were _lucky_. So, she had to persuade someone else to do the heavy lifting in terms of spell casting.

Grace sidled up to the very front of the Slytherin table, where all the seventh-years were clustered together. She waved cheerily at Andromeda, who smiled back warmly, before tapping Avery on his shoulder and asking quite politely, “Are you ready?”

He nearly spat out his pumpkin juice in surprise. “What the—why are you here?”

He was sitting between two brooding Slytherins. The one on his right was fair-haired, with a curling sneer settled on his lips. The other had a wide face and a bowl cut that made him seem that he came straight out of the nineteenth century. Both were rather disgruntled by Grace’s presence, although she didn’t quite care. There were more important things on her mind.

She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a very put-out pout. “You said you’d help me. Remember?”

“Er—” Avery’s eyes flickered to the students besides him. “She’s in my Divination class,” he offered in way of explanation. Neither of them seemed to care; they turned away and resumed their conversations with the other seventh-years. Avery rose and dragged Grace down to a corner of the Great Hall. “I told you I’d meet you outside the hall,” he said crossly.

“And I was waiting there,” Grace insisted, “for five _whole_ minutes.”

“So, what, you thought I’d just forgotten? After only a few minutes?” he said in disbelief.

“It was _not_ a few minutes. It was _five_!”

He stared at her, unimpressed, before deciding to let it slide. He turned towards the Gryffindor table, scanning through the students before settling on a familiar face with messy jet-black hair and square spectacles. “Where do you want me to do this?”

“Right in front of him,” Grace said, voice considerably brighter. “You remember, right?” Hold on—” she began rummaging through her bag, “—I wrote it down somewhere.”

“I think I’ve got it,” Avery said dryly. He leaned against the back wall and waved his wand in a series of careful and complex motions, muttering various incantations under his breath.

Within seconds, words began to appear before James in midair. They were made of thick red ribbon, and arranged themselves in elegant cursive. James had stopped eating, focusing on the words with furrowed brows. His fellow Gryffindors were equally as perplexed by the appearance of curling ribbon, until they finally figured out what it was spelling.

‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JAM-JAM!’ was spelled out in the midst of the Gryffindor table for all the world to see. James’s face colored scarlet, and those around him erupted into laughter. Students from the other Houses were craning their necks to catch a glimpse of what had riled up the Gryffindors. The professors, seated far above at the front, were gazing down at the scene with faint amusement.

Grace beamed. “Now do the—”

“I’ve got it, Potter,” Avery assured, waving his wand once more.

In an instant, a dazzling, glittering portrait of James’s face appeared underneath Grace’s birthday message. This was done to ensure that everyone knew exactly who Jam-Jam was. While Sirius howled with laughter, James began trying to hide his face with various breakfast items—toast, a pair of sausages, waffles.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Grace said in one breath, turning to Avery with shining eyes. “You’re really good at this, you know?”

“Embarrassing your brother on your behalf?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll put it on my résumé,” he said shortly. “And you’re welcome. I’ll see you later. Oh, and next time, do try to wait longer than just five minutes.”

With that, he stalked back to his end of the Slytherin table. Grace sped down to the other side, where all the first-years were gathered, all the while watching James try to bat away the ribboned words with his plate. It was all for naught. The message and picture would only disappear once the charm wore off.

“You did it!” Regulus said merrily when Grace sat down besides him.

“Technically Avery did it,” she pointed out, scooping some food onto a spare plate.

“But you’re the one that managed to convince him.”

“That’s true—”

“HELLO, LADIES AND GENTLEFOLK!”

Grace and Regulus both jumped at the booming voice. They turned around and found that Gideon and Fabian Prewett had climbed atop the Gryffindor table, and were now striding towards the magical display that Avery had created. It was slowly flickering and fading away.

As he walked along the table edge, Gideon kicked a student’s goblet, sending it flying halfway across the hall. “Ah, sorry about that,” he said, not seeming the least bit remorseful.

“What’s going on…?” Regulus said.

“No idea.”

“SO—” Fabian continued, voice magnified, “—WE WERE GOING TO PUT ON A BIG DISPLAY OURSELVES—”

“You’re _too fucking loud_!” a Hufflepuff shouted.

“Myers!” Sprout admonished from the head of the Great Hall.

“It’s true!” a Ravenclaw said in defense of Myers. “It’s _eight_ in the morning on a Monday. Some of us have hangovers—”

“Meadowes!” Flitwick gasped, aghast.

“Alright, alright,” Gideon said, putting his hands up in surrender. “We’ll just do this normally then, shall we?”

“Do _what_?” an irritated Gryffindor said. “Stamp on my food?”

“Oi, I know where you live, Wilson,” Fabian said, having removed his wand from the base of his throat.

Wilson bristled. “Was that a threat, Prewett—”

“Okay, _look_ ,” Gideon said, purposefully knocking over Wilson’s cutlery, “what Fab was going to say was that we were _going_ to put on a big display to get your attention. But it seems that Jam-Jam’s—” he gestured at James, whose face grew redder, “—admirer has accomplished that for us, so we might as well tell you what we need to tell you now.”

McGonagall was coming down from the professors’ table. Her lips were set in a tight, thin line.

“Oh, professor,” Fabian groaned, “come _on_. S’not like we’re technically breaking any rules.”

“You are disrupting students’ breakfast—”

“We’ll make it quick,” Gideon promised. His gaze swept over the students in the Great Hall hurriedly. “So, look, this is our last year here—”

“Thank Merlin,” several students muttered at once.

“—and we wanted to end off by passing on some stuff we’ve gathered to those who are worthy. So, we’ve arranged something of a treasure hunt for anyone who’s interested.”

“If you figure out our puzzles and whatnot, then you’ll be getting _quite_ the reward,” Fabian picked up. “You’ll have until the last Friday of April to crack it. We’ll be waiting then at, say—” he glanced at his twin, “—nine-ish?”

“Nine-ish,” Gideon agreed, “at night.”

“What do you mean?” a nearby Gryffindor asked. She had short-cropped brown hair and a round face. “Where will you be waiting?”

“Oh, Fawley,” Fabian said, “that’s the riddle, isn’t it?”

“You haven’t _given_ us a riddle—”

“Not yet we haven’t.” Gideon winked. “Be on the lookout in the next week or so.”

Fabian waved his wand, and a puff of deep purple smoke enveloped the two redheads. Several Gryffindors by their feet coughed and frantically began waving the fumes away.

“My flapjacks!” one said with dismay.

Grace’s eyes wavered away from the smoke and she saw, to her amusement, that the Prewetts were silently slinking out of the Great Hall by crawling underneath the table. They managed to make it out just as the smoke cleared and revealed they had vanished. Up on the professors’ table, Dumbledore began to clap politely. The others followed with great hesitation and reluctance. 

“ _Regulus_ ,” Grace breathed, peeling her eyes away from the Gryffindor table.

“No,” he said immediately.

“It’s a _treasure hunt_!”

“No.”

“They’re going to give us clues and everything! And it’d be wicked to get a reward. It’s probably some sort of ancient artifact—”

“You think those two have managed to procure an ancient artifact?”

“Well, you can’t say with certainty that they _haven’t_ gotten their hands on an ancient artifact,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Okay, even if they’ve got something wicked to give,” Regulus started, “there’s no time to engage in a treasure hunt! My planner is crammed full—” as if to punctuate his point, he dipped his hand into his bag and pulled out the black notebook, “—with projects and essays. Salazar, I’m half-convinced our professors have gone mad with all the assignments they’re doling out.”

“That’s just another reason why we _should_ do the treasure hunt,” Grace said. “That way, we can take a break. You can’t honestly be planning on spending every minute of every day finishing all your homework, right?”

Regulus flipped open his planner and showed Grace all he had scheduled for the next few weeks. Every slot was fitted with some or the other task. Grace squinted at it, reading through Regulus’s neat handwriting.

“Merlin,” she said. “You’ve planned your bathroom breaks?”

He slammed his planner shut. “There’s no time!”

“What if you got rid of your bathroom breaks?”

He rolled his eyes. “There’s still not enough time. Look—this isn’t anything dangerous. McGonagall didn’t even take points from the Prewetts, and Dumbledore actually _clapped_ after their whole speech.”

“So?”

“So, this isn’t anything that’s likely to get you in trouble or have you lose points. You don’t need me for it.”

Grace’s brows rose. What an absurd thought. Of course she needed him. They were a team, after all. “I can’t do this without you,” she said honestly. She _wouldn’t_ do it without him.

He stopped spooning his cream of mushroom soup and looked at her. “What do you mean?” he said, brows furrowing. “Sure you can. You’re clever. You can definitely piece together whatever clues the Prewetts are going to lay out.”

“I am clever,” Grace acknowledged, “but not with stuff like this. I’m clever in the way I trick Gamp and manage to shut up the Rosiers. I’m people-clever.”

“People-clever?” Regulus repeated slowly.

Grace nodded. “Yeah,” she said, scooping up some baked beans. “And you’re clue-clever.”

“I think you can just say observant.”

“Yeah, that,” she agreed. “You always notice small details in textbooks or lectures that help with spellwork. And you spot all the holes in whatever plans I make. And you listen to people, like _really_ listen to people, and I bet whatever the Prewetts say or do in the coming week will be chock-full of hints and riddles.” Grace’s eyes were bright and magnetizing. “So, you see, I _do_ need you. Besides—it wouldn’t be fun doing this just on my own.”

Regulus appraised her for a moment and then said, kindly, “You’re really good with speeches, you know.”

She grinned. “Those are my people-clever skills coming in handy.”

He laughed. “Okay, fine—I suppose if I move around some stuff, I can find time to help.” He slurped on his soup thoughtfully. “It does sound pretty interesting. I wonder what sort of clues they’ll come up with it. I hope it’ll tie into something historical. Then, I can finally use my second volume of _A History of Magic_ for something.”

Grace made a face. She rather hoped the clues would be a bit more interesting than that, but didn’t voice her opinion. “You know, Bathilda’s planning on writing up a third volume.” Grace rolled her eyes. “She told my mum that she wants to go _more_ in-depth about goblin-wizard tensions or whatever. She gave my mum an excerpt, and it’s dreadfully dull. I hope it doesn’t get published.”

Regulus stared at her for one long moment. “Hold on,” he croaked out eventually, “have you _met_ Bathilda Bagshot?”

Grace’s forehead creased. “Yeah, ‘course. She’s my neighbor. Haven’t I told you? We live in Godric’s Hollow.”

“No!” Regulus said, eyes wide. “You never told me! How could you not tell me, Grace? What’s she like? I heard she’s a bit of a recluse—is that true? Does she actually have the heads of war heroes preserved in her living room?”

“Er—” Grace started, “—well, she’s okay, I guess. James and I call her Batty Bathilda.” She snorted at this but Regulus didn’t seem the slightest bit impressed, so she coughed slightly and continued, “I dunno if she’s a recluse. She hosts luncheons quite an awful lot. And I’ve never _seen_ any preserved heads, but I’ll try to find them the next time I go over.”

“Merlin,” Regulus breathed, in a daze. “You live next to Bathilda Bagshot.”

“I can get her to autograph something for you, if you want?”

Regulus looked at Grace like she had just offered him the universe. “Could you ask her to sign my copy of _A History of Magic_?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Regulus’s face broke into a grin. “Sirius will be _so_ jealous.”

Grace very much doubted this, but she smiled along anyway.

* * *

The following week, at precisely 8:52 PM, the Prewetts revealed their first clue in the open space outside of the Great Hall. There were only a few stragglers who saw it—a poem graffitied onto the stonework of the floor—and Grace was amongst them. She had been heading back from her nightly check-up with Madam Pomfrey, and only managed to catch sight of it by chance, before Filch came to clean it.

In what seemed to be the handwriting of a five-year-old, the poem read:

 _In the painting,_  
_He’ll be singing._  
_Beyond the prat,_  
_We’ll be sat._  
_Still stuck?  
_ _Look at that!_

Underneath the last line was a long arrow that pointed down an opposite corridor. Grace followed it along with a couple of older students, until she came across a black-inked rune drawn across a wall.

“McGonagall is going to be _livid_ ,” one of the students said. She was the one who’d questioned the Prewetts at breakfast last week—Fawley.

“I am,” a tight voice said. Grace and the others spun around and found McGonagall staring at the ruined wall with an unreadable expression. “This is the _last_ so-called ‘clue’ the Prewetts will be putting up in Hogwarts, I can assure you of that.”

“But it’s the first—” another boy began.

“And the _last_ , as I said,” McGonagall said, nostrils flaring. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me: I should deliver the news to the Prewetts themselves.”

Grace stared after the Transfiguration professor for a moment before dashing off to find Regulus in the library. He was, as usual, seated underneath one of the large windows, poring over three different books about cross-switches.

“Look!” she burst when she was close enough. From an entirely different section of the library, Pince shushed her. Grace dropped her voice to a whisper and continued, “The Prewetts just gave us their first clue—er, their first and last clue, actually. I think McGonagall’s going to stop them from doing anything more.”

“Well, at least that’ll mean the whole treasure hunt thing will be shorter,” Regulus said. “What’s the clue?”

She pulled the poem she had quickly recopied on a spare roll of parchment from her bag and thrust it at him, eagerly waiting for his reaction.

“Is this…” Regulus began, eyes roving over the paper, “…your History of Magic essay?”

“Oh, sorry, it’s on the back.” She reached over and turned over the scroll.

“Grace, you should rewrite your essay. The troll wars didn’t start because the trolls were bored and wanted to spend time doing something fun—”

“Never mind the essay,” she said, pushing the parchment closer to him. “Look at the clue!”

Regulus read through it carefully. He stared at it for a long moment, lips twisting into a thoughtful series of grimaces, brows furrowing then un-furrowing. “This is a horrible poem,” he said at last.

Grace rolled her eyes and plucked her parchment from his hands. “Good thing this isn’t a poetry contest, then. What do you reckon it means? Do you think it’s a metaphor.” She stared at her scrawl for a long moment. “Do you think the prat is a metaphor for Gryffindor?”

“No, because the Prewetts _are_ Gryffindors. If anything, they’re probably talking about Slytherin.”

Grace nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I suppose so. Maybe they’re talking about a singing painting by the Slytherin common room…?” She frowned. “But there aren’t any portraits in the dungeons. Unless it’s a portrait _in_ our common room—but how would they have managed to get in?”

“It’s probably not Slytherin, then,” Regulus said, still frowning. “What does it mean by ‘look at that’?”

“Oh!” Grace took out a separate piece of parchment. “I almost forgot. That line had an arrow, pointing to a rune they drew on the other side of the castle. It’s this.” She slid the second paper to him. Regulus looked over her drawing with draw brows. His grey eyes roving over each stroke. “I suppose that _Reading Runes_ book will come in handy.”

“Yeah,” Regulus said, and proceeded to take that exact book from his knapsack.

Grace’s brows rose. “Have you just been carrying that with you the whole time?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was completely normal. “I wanted to read a new book, and you got me this one, so why not?”

“But it’s not a fun book. That’s a _textbook_.”

“Books are books,” he said firmly as he flipped it open. “Now, this book goes through runic script in stages. It starts off with very basic structures—things like ovals for the sun and other astronomical things, squares for earthly things—before moving on to more complex forms.” He squinted at the rune Grace scribbled down. “This one looks complex.”

It did. It was a half circle with lines crossing through it in an x-formation, similar to an asterisk. Surrounding it were a pair of curves that reminded Grace of a butterfly’s wings.

“Maybe we should focus on the first part for now,” Grace suggested. She traced her finger over the first couplet. “I suppose it means that someone’s singing in a portrait, right?”

“Here’s what I’m thinking—do you remember how someone asked the Prewetts _where_ they were supposed to meet them on the last Friday of April?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I think that this portrait, wherever it is, opens and leads to some secret passageway or room. There are dozens of them all over Hogwarts, right?”

Grace blinked in surprise. “Yeah, there are. I reckon you’re right. It sounds completely in line with what the Prewetts would do.” She glanced back down at the poem. “If it’s a secret passageway, then it could also be that someone is _behind_ the portrait, singing, right?”

“Yeah…” Regulus said, frowning. “But unless someone’s there singing at all hours, it’s probably unlikely.”

“Probably,” she agreed. “Okay, so if it’s a portrait of a man singing, then all we’ve got to do is find just that.” Her forehead creased in worry. “But there must be hundreds and hundreds of paintings in this castle. Are we meant to go up to each one and check if they’re singing?”

Regulus squinted at the third line. “Well, it’ll be near a prat, though, right? So that should cut down the number of portraits we’ll have to look at.”

Grace wasn’t appeased by this in the slightest. “This place is full of prats!” she complained. “I can name five off the top of my head right now!”

Pince shushed her once more, peeking her head round a bookshelf. She narrowed her dark eyes at Grace and pressed a bony finger against her lips.

“Er—sorry,” Grace said hastily.

As Grace continued to puzzle over the poem, Regulus began working on looking up the rune in his book. He was flipping through pages madly, stopping now and again at a certain page before shaking his head and flipping to an entirely new one.

“It could be a portrait _with_ a prat,” Grace thought aloud. “Like—suppose there’s some prat who owns a portrait. What if we’ve got to steal it from them?”

“I’m not stealing someone’s property,” Regulus interjected.

Grace sighed. Her gaze traveled down to the next side. “What do they mean ‘we’ll be sat’? How will they be sat beyond the prat? Is it—” she tried to wrap her brain around, “—that there’s a sofa behind the prat? And the Prewetts will be lounging there?”

That didn’t make much sense, and she knew it.

“‘Still stuck?’” Grace read. “Yeah, I am.” She glanced at Regulus, who was buried deep in his book. “Do you think that line’s supposed to be a hint?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I mean, we _are_ stuck, so maybe once we figure out the rune, it’ll be clear.”

“Maybe,” Grace echoed. “Do you have any idea what the rune could be?”

“Yeah,” Regulus said, skimming through a page. “So this basic form—” he tapped on the half-circle, “—represents the moon.”

“Okay. That means we’ve now got a painting, a prat, and a moon.”

“Not just any moon,” Regulus added. “These lines over here are supposed to indicate—” he glanced back at his book, “—darkness. So a dark moon? Or a hidden moon? Or a moon in the dark—”

“Aren’t all moons in the dark, on account of it having to be nighttime to see the moon?”

“Well, the moon still _exists_ in the daytime. I’m sure if you had a really good telescope, you could see the moon, or at least a faint outline of it, when it’s sunny.”

“Alright, but we don’t have to consider that, because the extra lines—” Grace jabbed her finger at the asterisk covering the half-circle, “—say it’s dark.”

He nodded. “And there are these little curves here—” they looked like the curl of a cloud, “—which I think means the sea.”

“The sea?” Grace’s brows were furrowed. “So, we’ve got a moon above the sea in the dark in a painting by a prat.”

“Oh, wait—” Regulus’s finger was skimming down an index in the book, “—sorry, it’s cloudy, not sea.”

“Are you sure?”

He glanced at Grace, looked back at the book, and then met her gaze once more. “No,” he sighed. “This riddle seems like it was meant for someone who’s actually taken Ancient Runes.”

“We’re doing fine,” Grace insisted. “Okay—so this could be a moon above the sea in the dark in a painting by a prat _or_ a cloudy moon in the dark in a painting by a prat.” She let out a woeful sigh. “It’s the prat part that’s really tricky.”

“It is,” Regulus agreed.

She frowned. “We’ve figured out the rune, but we’re still stuck.”

“We are.”

Grace let out a loud groan. “This is much harder than I thought it would be.”

“How about we sleep on it?” Regulus suggested. “I’m sure when we wake up in the morning, we’ll have new ideas on what the riddle could mean.”

“Yeah,” Grace sighed, nodding. “Maybe it’ll come to me in a dream.”

* * *

It did not come to her in a dream.

By the last Friday of April, Grace and Regulus were still no closer to cracking the riddle. They spent weeks puzzling over the meaning behind the prat. They both eventually figured the Prewetts were just trying to find an easy rhyme, and that the _real_ puzzle was figuring out which of the many portraits hung about Hogwarts had a dark, cloudy moon and a singing man. 

Grace held high hopes that the seventh-years in her Divination class ought to know, seeing as they’ve been at Hogwarts the longest would know most of the portraits by now.

She was, to her utter dismay, wrong again.

“Was Andy any help?” Regulus asked Grace when she stomped to the library after class.

Grace collapsed besides him. “No,” she moaned. “Neither was Avery or the other seventh-years. And, to make matters worse, the whole time I was asking during Divination, the Prewetts were just sitting there _smirking_.”

“How dare they,” he said absentmindedly.

“How dare they!” she agreed vehemently. She craned her neck and looked at what Regulus was reading. It was a compendium of portraits acquired by Hogwarts. He was currently in the ‘M’ section. “Merlin,” she said, sliding closer to get a better look, “how long have you been poring over this for?”

“Just a few minutes,” he said. He looked up to meet her gaze. “It suddenly hit me that there must be a catalog of all the portraits in Hogwarts. I suppose I could have started at ‘A,’ since we don’t exactly know what we’re looking for and it’s best to be thorough. But it would have taken me forever to go through the whole thing. I figured that whatever we’re looking for must be under ‘M’—since the rune was of a moon…so, here I am.”

“You know what I think?” Grace said brusquely, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring stonily into the distance. “I think the portrait’s got a prat _in_ it instead of by it. I think the portrait must be of some ancestor of the Prewetts. Their whole family’s full of prats, I’m sure.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” Regulus said, flipping his index to the ‘P’ section. “Maybe there is a portrait of a relative of theirs here.”

“I wish McGonagall hadn’t stopped them from giving more clues. There was _clearly_ meant to be more than one,” Grace muttered. “I wonder if anyone else has figured out the riddle. Probably not, right? I mean, we’ve worked _so_ hard on it, and we’re not even—”

“Merlin’s pants!” Regulus exclaimed.

“ _Quiet_ ,” Pince hissed from behind them.

“What?” Grace said, voice low. “What is it?”

“You were right—”

“Really?” she said, eyes wide. “There’s really some blasted ancestor of theirs with a portrait in this castle?”

“No, no—there is a portrait with a prat _in_ it.” He shoved the book into Grace’s face, almost smothering her with it. “There, see! There’s a Sir Percival Pratt!”

“He’s the prat!” Grace shouted, jumping from their table.

“You two,” Pince snapped, eyes narrowed at the duo. “Out!”

“That’s fine—we’re going,” Grace said, far too happy to form any sort of retort. She gathered her bag and notes. “We found the prat!” she cheered.

Pince scowled at them.

The duo grabbed dinner quickly and, just as it was approaching eight o’clock, Regulus led Grace to the portrait of Sir Percival Pratt. It was posted on the ground floor of Hogwarts, by the Grand Staircase. The man in it was rather thin and sallow, with wispy chestnut-colored hair and dark eyes. In his left hand was a scroll of parchment; in the right was an ink-dipped quill. Behind him was a full moon—white and luminous—piercing the dark. Heavy, grey clouds flitted over it.

Grace grabbed Regulus’s arm in excitement. “Look!” she said, pointing. “That was what the rune was describing.”

He was grinning. “This has _got_ to be it.”

“Hello,” Grace announced, stepping up to the portrait. Pratt’s eyes swung down to her. His lips pursed in annoyance. “Are you hiding a secret room? If so, we’ve really got to get in. Please.”

“If my secrets you seek, the password you must speak.”

“Oh, Regulus,” Grace said, eyes bright and eager, “he’s _singing_. This is definitely it.”

“But we need a password.” Regulus let out a breath. “Er—is it ‘moon,’ Mr. Pratt? Cloudy moon? Dark, cloudy moon?”

Pratt scoffed down at Regulus. “Babbling nonsense is the sign of a mind with no content.”

“ _Content_?” Regulus said, affronted. “I’ll have you know, there is a _lot_ of content in my head. I read a new book every week!”

“Look, Mr. Pratt,” Grace started, “could you give us a hint about the password?”

“Only the worthy may enter. If a hint is required, then you do not deserve my splendor.”

“The meter of that rhyme was a little off,” Regulus sniffed.

Pratt harrumphed and turned away.

“What’re we supposed to do now?” Grace said, biting the inside of her cheek. “We’re _so_ close. This has to be it.”

“The Prewetts were probably going to reveal what the password was in their second clue,” Regulus sighed. “But since we’ve only got this one…we haven’t a chance.”

“We’re stuck. The second to last line said if we’re still stuck we should look at the rune, so—”

“But the rune is just that moon.” Regulus frowned. “I suppose the password could be moon-related, but—honestly—it just seems to be a background detail.”

“Yeah…” Grace said slowly.

 _It’s the prat part that’s really tricky_ , she recalled. But if the tricky part was, of course, getting Sir Percival Pratt to reveal his password and let them through the secret passage, then why did the poem’s last line— _look at that!_ —lead to a rune of a shadowy, cloudy moon? What did that have to do with anything, really? It wasn’t particularly helpful, since the moon aspect of the portrait was rather minor. If anything, it seemed like something of a diversion—

_Oh._

“Look at that!” Grace said, pointing wildly to the right, where she and Regulus had come from.

“What?” Pratt said, alarmed. He twisted to where Grace was pointing, and when he turned, she caught a glimpse of what was written on his paper. In neat cursive, the were words: _this password is absurd_.

“This password is absurd…?” she wondered aloud, frowning.

Pratt let out a groan. “Oh, bloody—”

Almost involuntarily, his portrait swung open, revealing the stone of the passageway.

“First off,” Regulus said, startled, “that was absolutely brilliant of you.”

“I try,” Grace said, beaming.

“Second— _that_ was the password?”

Grace stared into the open hole in the wall. It was a tunnel that wound deep into the earth. “I suppose so,” she said, stepping in. “Strange—I thought for sure it was just another puzzle.”

“Thank Merlin we’re done with puzzles,” Regulus grumbled, following after her. “This has got to be it, right? Where we’re supposed to meet the Prewetts?”

“I think so.”

“Lumos,” Regulus said, lighting his wand as they headed down the passageway.

It didn’t seem to be in much use. There were cobwebs stuck all over the pace, and the torches that were hung to the walls were decrepit, only a touch away from collapsing into dust and ash. The passageway led them in a series of dizzying twists and turns until, finally, they reached a point where the mouth of the tunnel widened. Just a few paces away from where they stood, Grace could hear faint laughter.

She stopped just shy of where the stone passageway curved into the larger antechamber. Regulus bumped into her back.

“Ow—what?” Regulus complained.

“Do you hear voices?” Grace strained her ears.

“Maybe someone got to the prize before we did?”

“What!” Grace said, appalled at the prospect. “Do you really think so? But the poem was so hard to figure out—with the runes and all.”

“That was hard for us,” he agreed, “but probably not for someone who’s taking N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes.”

“You think some shut-in taking N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes would participate in this ridiculous treasure hunt?”

“I—you know—what does it matter?” he huffed. “Let’s just see whatever it is that’s waiting for us at the end so we can be done with it. Merlin knows we’ve wasted enough time and energy on this.”

“Oh, come on,” Grace said. She rolled her eyes and proceeded forward, Regulus following closely behind. “I know you enjoyed it.”

“I was, and then Pratt told me my mind’s got no _content_ in it,” he said bitterly.

“You’ve got loads of content,” Grace assured just as they stepped into the room the tunnel fed into.

The stone melted into wood and dirt. There were windows secured between rows of neatly nailed wooden planks, and when Grace rose on her tiptoes to catch a look, she saw that they were outside of Hogwarts—beyond the Great Lake, by the looks of it. She glanced back at the room, which was rather cramped. In the center, sitting cross-legged on the floor were Fabian and Gideon, who were chatting with one another. Off to the side was—

“Sirius?” Regulus exclaimed in surprise.

The dark-haired boy looked up from his huddle of friends and promptly said, “Regulus?”

Grace caught sight of her own brother. “James?”

“Grace?”

“Fabian?” Gideon gasped suddenly.

“Gideon?” Fabian cried out in return.

Remus was laughing. There was a smile twitching across James’s face. Peter was snickering quietly.

“What’re you doing here?” Sirius demanded, gaze flitting between Regulus and Grace.

“Isn’t it sort of obvious?” Regulus said dryly. “We figured out the puzzle.”

“Impressive,” Gideon noted, nodding at Grace, “considering you were whining about being stuck earlier today.”

Grace pursed her lips. “Yeah, well your clue was rubbish, so it took a bit longer than expected.”

Before Gideon could have a chance to retort, a few more students stepped inside the secret room. Grace twisted around and saw the group of three students she had seen by the rune scrawled on the wall: Fawley and her friends.

“A lot of you have figured this out, huh?” Fabian said rather anxiously, surveying the nine students pooled in the small room.

“Oh, hold on—is that _Meadowes_?” James said with a slack jaw. “You teamed up with the opposition, Longbottom? Fawley?”

Longbottom rolled his eyes. “We’ve known Dorcas longer than we have you.”

“But we’re supposed to play Ravenclaw in a few weeks, and—”

“Does it look like this dumb treasure hunt has anything to do with Quidditch?” Fawley interrupted. Her eyes flickered to the Prewetts. “It looks like quite a few people have unraveled your riddle. How’re you planning on splitting up the gold?”

“Gold?” Gideon said. “We never mentioned anything about _gold_.”

“Oh, God, I knew this was going to be a waste of time,” Meadowes muttered.

“No gold?” Sirius complained. “What sort of prize were you planning on giving, then?”

“Grace,” Regulus whispered into her ear, “it’s just now occurring to me that this might have been a trap, getting a bunch of students in an enclosed space with the promise of a prize that doesn’t exist.”

“What?” Grace said. “Nah, I doubt it. The Prewetts are harmless.” Her thoughts suddenly fled to Khan, whose knees the twins had shattered long ago. She swallowed thickly. “Okay, on second thought—”

“Oi, what’re you lot whispering about?” James said. “Do you know?” He glanced at the Prewetts. “They know, don’t they?”

“No one knows,” Gideon assured.

“The prizes,” Fabian began magnanimously, “are a few spells that Gid and I have cultivated in our seven years here.”

Fawley groaned loudly.

“This is the real deal,” Gideon said, throwing Fawley a glare. “We’ve invented a few spells that have gotten us out of the occasional jam. You won’t find these spells anywhere else in the world.”

“What are they?” Peter asked.

“We’ve got the Speed Spell, the Moment of Blindness Jinx, the Dismembered Limb Illusion Charm, the Suggestion Spell, and the Extra Hives Hex,” Fabian listed, holding up a finger for each spell.

“You only came up with five spells in your seven years here?” Meadowes said dryly. “One of which is clearly just a knock-off of illusion charms in general?”

“You’ll all get to choose one, and _only_ one,” Gideon said, pointedly ignoring Meadowes. “You won’t be able to share them with anyone else—because, if you do, we’ll know.”

“And you don’t want to know what we do with people who betray our trust,” Fabian finished, eyeing the students in front of him. He clapped his hands together. “Alright, I suppose we’ll start with the group that came here first. Oh, and, by the way, once a group picks a spell, it’s off the table—”

“You mean we only get one spell for each team?” Sirius said, crossing his arms over his chest. “That seems hardly fair. We’ve got four people, so—”

“So clearly you lot needed extra help,” Gideon said, shaking his head in dismay. “But I’ll overlook it.”

“How come the team that gets here first gets to pick first?” Fawley demanded. “The only requirement was that we get here by nine.”

“Well, we’ve got to figure out _some_ way to have people pick first,” Fabian said. “If not this, then what?”

“You could just let the person you know best go first,” Grace piped in.

“Nice try, firstie,” Gideon said dryly. “But there’s no special treatment for you.”

“But Grace _should_ go first,” Regulus insisted. “If it wasn’t for her display in the Great Hall, you wouldn’t have been able to announce your scavenger hunt to begin with.”

“If we’re going by that logic, then if it wasn’t for James’s _birth_ , then Grace wouldn’t have put together that display in the Great Hall to begin with,” Remus said. “So, really, it’s only fair if our team goes first.”

James clapped Remus on the back, beaming. “That seems sound to me.”

“How about, just to shake things up, the team who came last picks first?” Longbottom suggested.

“Nope, we’re doing it by who came first,” Fabian said. “So you and your teammates better figure out what spell you want.”

Whispers broke out amongst the three groups immediately. Grace dragged Regulus off to the side of the room, throwing fretful looks over her shoulder, making sure that she was clear of her brother.

“Which one seems the best to you?” she asked.

“Suggestion Spell,” he said immediately.

“I was thinking the same—”

“We call the Suggestion Spell!” Sirius announced loudly.

Fabian ushered over Sirius’s team and showed them a piece of parchment, taking care to hide it from the others’ sight.

“He is a plague on my life,” Regulus murmured sadly.

“Which one next?” Grace asked. “The Speed Spell sounds interesting—but I dunno if it makes objects or people go fast.”

“Maybe we should go with the Moment of Blindness Jinx,” Regulus said. “I think it’d be helpful if you need to distract someone.”

“That’s true.” She turned to Gideon. “We want the blindness one.”

They were called over and shown a torn piece of parchment. At the top of the was the incantation— _Caeco!_ —and, underneath, was the wand motion. It seemed simple enough—just a simple swoop of the hand.

“Got it?” Fabian asked.

“Er—” Grace said.

“Yes,” Regulus nodded.

Fabian crumpled up the paper and set it on fire. He looked at Fawley. “Okay, it’s you—”

“Er—hello?”

Everyone in the room turned towards the entrance, where a tenth student was making his way down. He seemed older than James but younger than Fawley and her friends, with dark, tousled hair and anxious pale blue eyes.

“Sorry,” the boy said quietly, glancing about the room. “I think I got a bit lost. Could you point me to the loo, please?”

James stared at him. “Mate, how’d you get here by accident? It took us a good week to get here on purpose.”

“Er—I dunno, must’ve taken a wrong turn…?”

“Look, wrong turn or not, you’re too late,” Fabian said firmly. “We said nine o’clock.”

“W—what?” the boy said. His pale eyes darted about the room frantically.

“Technically,” Fawley started, “you said nine- _ish_. So, he’s perfectly within his right to claim something from you.”

“That’s true,” Longbottom backed up.

“You can’t go back on your word,” Meadowes added.

“Oh, fine,” Gideon said, rolling his eyes. He edged closer to the boy. “Loo boy, which one do you want?”

The tips of the boy’s ears turned red. “P—pardon?” he spluttered.

“Which spell,” Fabian explained exasperatedly, “do you want from us? Er—hold on, actually. Fawley, what does your team want?”

“Speed Spell,” she said easily.

“Right, so, loo boy, that means we’ve only got the Dismembered Limb Illusion Charm and the Extra Hives Hex. Which one do you want?”

“I—I dunno?” the boy said. His eyes swept over the twins. “Have you got a spell that can make a toilet appear?”

Gideon shook his head. “Of course you’d say that. Typical loo boy.”

“We’ve only just met!” the boy protested. “And—do you mind not calling me that? I don’t want it to stick.”

“Well, you haven’t exactly introduced yourself, loo boy.” 

“You didn’t ask…but, erm, it’s Louis.”

Fabian’s eyes lit up. “Sorry, did you say Loo-is?”

Louis deflated. “Give me whatever spell you want. I just want to leave and find a bathroom.”

Spells were dished out. Fabian and Gideon gave another vague threat about not sharing their findings with anyone. After that, all twelve of them steadily climbed back up through the passageway, Louis complaining all the while about how difficult it was to find a bathroom in this maze of a castle.

“You know,” Regulus started, trailing behind the others alongside Grace, “the runes were really interesting. I think I will take Ancient Runes later on.”

Grace glanced at him, somewhat worried. “What about Arithmancy?”

“I think you’re right—loading up on hard, boring classes will be a bit taxing. Besides, Divination sounds interesting.”

Grace beamed. “See, I told you! Not to mention, seeing the future is useful. Who actually uses Arithmancy?”

“Arithmancers,” Regulus said immediately.

“And who uses Arithmancers?”

He paused thoughtfully. “I don’t know, actually.”

“Exactly,” Grace said triumphantly.

* * *

It was a bright Sunday at the start of May when Grace was back at St. Mungo’s for her follow-up appointment.

“But _then_ , I realized that Pratt was holding a paper, and maybe he had something written down on it,” she recalled to her parents happily. “So, I distracted him, and when he turned, the password was just written down on there!”

Mum snorted. “You know, I’ve had a couple run-ins with that portrait.” She glanced at Dad. “I suppose this is why James wrote to us two weeks ago asking if we knew the password for it?”

“ _No_.” Grace gaped. “You mean—James cheated?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dad said. “After all, we didn’t know the password.”

“Then how—”

“Ah, hello, Grace,” Healer Kane said, smiling wanly. She was dressed in her usual mint green uniform, dark hair fastened into a bun and hidden by her cap. “You’ve taken my advice, I hope?”

“I haven’t stressed about a single thing,” Grace said proudly. “It was really refreshing, actually. Can you write me notes for homework extensions next year, too?”

Kane chuckled, waving her wand over Grace’s head. “We’ll see.”

Grace lay still under Kane’s precise wand motions, playing with the ends of the linen sheets on her cot. She wondered how many more of these check-ups she would have to endure. She hadn’t experienced anything remotely resembling a paroxysm since her brief stint in St. Mungo’s back in November. Hopefully, her Mum and Dad would call these excessive appointments off soon, before Regulus got even _more_ suspicious.

“Oh, dear,” Kane said softly, retracting her wand.

Mum was already up. She wrung her hands uselessly. “It’s not—it’s not that—”

“I’m afraid it is.”

Grace’s head snapped up. Kane’s lips were pressed together in a thin, sad frown. Her cheeks were hollow, her brows drawn together in what could have been confusion or sympathy.

“Er—what is it?” Grace asked, twisting to her mother.

Mum’s hand was over her mouth. “No, but—you said it was so _rare_ —”

“Shh,” Dad said, bringing Mum to sit on the edge of the hospital bed, besides Grace.

As soon as Mum was sitting, she wrapped an arm around Grace. “Oh, darling—I’m so _sorry_ —”

“About _what_?” Grace snapped, lips pursed. “What is it? Is there another paroxysm coming?”

“Do you remember when we discussed the waning process?” Kane began, voice gentle.

“Yeah.” Grace’s mouth was unbearably dry. “Yeah, you said when I got to Hogwarts, my magical energy would adjust. I’d be able to channel it better, because I’d have my wand.”

“Yes,” Kane said, “in theory.”

“What do you mean ‘in theory’?” Grace’s heart was ramming against her chest. “You said that was what was going to happen.”

“We don’t have a lot to go on,” Kane started rather weakly. “As I’ve said time and time again, we only have medieval cases to go off of, to normalize you against. Now, there are a handful of cases where Hywell’s disease persists even after the age of eleven—at which point the condition evolves and becomes chronic. Unfortunately, Grace, the levels of strain we’ve recorded for you these past few months match these cases exactly. It just keeps building up.”

Grace struggled to get her head around this. “I don’t—” she said, voice faint, “But I—what do you mean it’s chronic?”

“Gracie,” Dad murmured, reaching for her hand. His eyes were downcast. “She means it won’t go away.”

“But—that—but that’s not fair,” she said immediately, voice thick and strangled. “What do you mean? You—you said there would be a _waning_. You said that!” She was trembling under her father’s hand. “You said it was going to go away!”

“I’m sorry.” Kane pocketed her wand. “There are only a few medieval cases—three, actually—that coincide with the progression of mental strain that you’ve endured these past few years. In these particular cases, the strain persists past childhood. We don’t know the cause.”

Kane spoke gently, but her words sounded so high and unreachable that Grace could not help but feel worse. She felt very small. She felt like she was four years old again, huddled at the head of her hospital cot, crying about how her head had exploded, how the dark had devoured her whole, how she’d screamed and screamed for Mummy and Daddy but neither of them had come.

Kane began pulling out some scrolls of parchment. “If you’d like, you can see the incline, for your own understanding. It’s distinctly dissimilar to waning cases, so—”

“I don’t want to see,” Grace said, voice and lips and chin trembling. “I don’t _want_ —” Her words collapsed into her throat, a tower come toppling down, a cave knocked in.

She didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to know why she was the way she was. She didn’t want to know about all the other kids who had suffered throughout the years. She only wanted to get better. She only wanted to stop having to stuff herself full of herbs and draughts. She only wanted to be able to play pretend Quidditch with James. She only wanted to have her own _real_ owl, one that she could pet and coo at. She only wanted to be normal and be happy and—and just _not be sick_. (Oh, how she hated that word— _sick_. It sounded like something that had gotten stuck in the mud. It sounded like the plunge of a knife into a heart. It sounded like her whole life.)

“I’m sorry, Gracie,” Dad whispered, his own voice choked and hushed.

“It’s not fair,” she said, and hated how her voice warbled and how the corners of her eyes were pricked with tears. She didn’t want to cry, not now. She wanted to march up to whoever it was that dished out diseases to children and ask why she’d gotten the worst of the lot. “It’s not _fair_.”

She didn’t know how better to explain how she was feeling. She knew it was childish of her to expect the world to be proper and fair, for her to always be rewarded when she did good things and punished when she did not. But that _ought_ to be how it went, right? She wasn’t some sort of evil sorceress, running about tripping people over her foot and flinging children’s sundaes onto the pavement. She was just _Grace_. She made mistakes, and sometimes she was a bit mean, but only if someone deserved it. On the whole, she thought she was rather a nice person. She was kind to James if he was kind to her, and she’d been a good friend to Regulus this past year. She listened to her parents whenever she could find it in herself to sit still long enough to do so, and she followed Healer Kane’s instructions as best she could—no broomsticks, no owls, no crystal balls. She’d done it all. Sure, she complained, but who didn’t? She’d still done what needed to be done.

So why hadn’t any of it worked? Why was she now _stuck_ with this blasted illness of hers? What mistake had she made? Where had it all gone wrong?

The first of the tears slid from her eyes slowly, but once she realized she had started crying, it was like a dam burst. She burst into sobs and curled tightly into her mother’s arms, wailing about how it really, really _wasn’t_ fair, how she’d been dreaming about the day she wouldn’t have to worry about paroxysms anymore. But now that day would never come, would it? She’d have to live the rest of her life like this. She’d always thought that one day, when she was all better, she’d be able to go out and buy her own owl, perhaps even twenty of them, and even join a Quidditch team if she was feeling up to it. That wasn’t going to happen now, and Grace felt foolish for having held that hope, for having dared to dream.

“We’ll figure something out,” Mum whispered. She was smoothing back Grace’s hair. “I promise you, darling. We’ll figure something out. It’ll be okay.”

Grace didn’t believe this in the slightest. Everyone had told her it would be okay when she was four and had her first paroxysm, too. _It’s okay_. The whole world was telling her that. _It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay_.

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t okay, and would never be. Grace would never get what she wanted. What was left for her? If she could not have her health, if she could not have her broomsticks or owls, then what? Was there anything left to hold onto?

“I—I can still go to Hogwarts, right?” she hiccuped, rubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

It wouldn’t be so bad if she could still have Hogwarts. If she couldn’t have broomsticks or owls or crystal balls or Pensieves or Sneakoscopes or whatever else was out there, then she should at least have Hogwarts. She should still have the soothing quiet of the Slytherin common room and the warm glow of the Great Hall and Binns’s exasperation at her non-History of Magic questions and Slughorn’s ridiculous obsession with his club. She should still have her friends and her brother and her home away from home.

Mum hesitated, but Dad answered without question:

“Yes,” he said, “you’ll always have Hogwarts, Gracie.”

Maybe that would be enough.


	19. Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace’s first year at Hogwarts comes to an end.

It wasn’t enough.

Grace had thought that once she fell back into the swing of classes, once she was settled back at Regulus’s side, once she got back into her old routine of swindling Gamp and pestering Avery and pranking James, she’d be back to normal. She thought it would be natural for her to ease back into the happy, carefree, lighthearted Grace she had been before Kane had given her that dreadful news.

But she was wrong. No matter how peaceful the common room was, no matter how bright the light reflecting off the Great Lake shone, no matter how little homework the professors assigned and how reluctantly friendly her dorm-mates were and how nice and agreeable James tried to be—it simply wasn’t enough.

She wanted more. She was greedy for all the things she could not have, could never touch. She wanted to fling herself into the air and fly and fly and never land. It wasn’t enough that she was at Hogwarts and would have to watch all the others soar into the air. She didn’t want to sit by and just watch. She wanted to _do_. She burned for it, and the days burned by with her.

Grace grew sullen and bitter. She hadn’t disrupted History of Magic in weeks, much to the annoyance of a few students. She had stopped putting effort into her essays for classes, often simply writing the first thing that came to mind and letting Regulus fuss over it. She started eating down in the kitchens again, because she couldn’t bear to be around all that warmth in the Great Hall—all the laughing, chattering students who didn’t have a _clue_ as to how lucky they were.

Her drastic change in mood did not go unnoticed.

“Er—Grace?”

She started, tearing her gaze away from her textbook. “Sorry,” she said, blinking owlishly at Regulus, who was sitting cross-legged besides her, his Astronomy notes spread out in front of him. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just that you’ve been staring at the same page in your textbook for twenty minutes now.” He pointed lamely at her open Astronomy book. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she said. She turned to the next page. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” His eyes flitted over her, like he was hoping he might find the answer to her sour mood on her person. When he did not, he asked, “Do you want to go to the Quidditch game later today?”

She glanced back up at him, perplexed. “There’s a game today?”

“Yeah, it’s the final—Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw.” He gathered his notes into a pile. “We’ve still got a week until exams, and I figure we’ve studied enough for now. It might do us some good to get a break, and you haven’t been to the other matches…so, what do you say?”

She shrugged half-heartedly. She’d been avoiding the Quidditch fields since the beginning of the year as per Kane’s instructions, and things weren’t any different now. Grace was still expected to abide by her Healer’s restrictions, but she found herself wondering what was the _point_ in following all those rules when it didn’t make an ounce of difference in the end. No matter how much she steered clear of broomsticks, she’d still get a paroxysm eventually.

“If you say no,” Regulus said suddenly, lips pursed, “I’ll drag you there myself. You look like you’ve had the life sucked out of you.”

“I’m just tired,” she said shortly, snapping her book shut.

“Well, this’ll make you lively, watching the players whizz about and cheering for them,” Regulus insisted. “Also, Sirius told me that he’s the commentator for this match, because something’s happened with the old one.” He nudged her shoulder slightly. “That’ll be funny to see, right?”

She let out a lengthy sigh. She sort of wanted to go to the match. Just to spite her own traitorous body.

“Alright,” she said at last, rising. “When is it?”

Regulus beamed. “In a half hour, but we can head there now. Come on.”

She let him drag her along the common room, out through the dungeons, past the Grand Staircase, onto the open grounds of the castle. They strolled, Regulus a little ahead, walking with an eagerness Grace had lost.

Around the stadium, they joined a throng of keen students. Grace climbed up the Slytherin stands. It wasn’t as full as, say, the Gryffindor or Ravenclaw stands (both were filled to the brim with cheering students and large banners), but the crowd was sizable enough. Most of the Slytherins there seemed rather impartial about the game, but there were a few enthusiastic fans rooting avidly for Ravenclaw to win.

“I wish Slytherin made it to the finals,” Regulus said, parting through the stream of students. “It would have made today’s game more interesting, I think.”

Grace hummed in agreement.

“They’ve got a pretty good team. Their Keeper could use some work, though. He’s not very good on covering the side goals. And their Seeker’s a bit slow—that’s what cost them their last game against Ravenclaw—but their Chasers are rather good.” Regulus glanced at Grace. “Did I tell you I was thinking of trying out next year?”

“Yeah.”

“You could try out, too,” Regulus said suddenly. “Your parents can’t keep you off broomsticks forever. Besides, you said you liked playing as a Beater, right? I think one of the Beaters on the team is a seventh-year, so there’ll be a vacancy next year.”

“I like _watching_ Beaters,” she corrected. “And I can’t try out. I can’t play.”

“Why not?”

 _Because I’ll probably have a seizure in midair and plummet to the ground. Because my stupid body’s too stupid for it. Because life isn’t fair._ “Because I’m no good,” she said at last, tone dull and flat.

“Oh.” Regulus shifted, settling into a row in the center. He pulled Grace down besides her. Again, his eyes roved over her, searching, hoping. “If you practice, maybe—”

“I don’t want to.” She didn’t want to do anything.

“Oh…okay.”

Grace’s eyes flew over the open, green fields. Madam Hooch was walking along the edge of the stadium, guards on her arms and shins, dragging along a large trunk in one hand and a shabby broom in the other. The competing teams were nowhere to be seen.

“Will they come out soon?” she asked with heavy boredom.

“I think so.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the Gryffindor stands erupted into whoops and shouts. At the center of the stadium, Hooch was signaling to someone off-field. Only a moment later, the Gryffindor team began to emerge from the training grounds. At the front was a lean, steely-eyed woman with a sleek, dark broom clasped tightly in her right hand—Breckenridge, the captain. Following her was the rest of the team. James was amongst the first few, a Chaser, beaming at the cheers and applause directed at his team.

The Ravenclaw team entered from the other end, and the stands besides the Gryffindor ones immediately rose to a clamor—trying to drown out the Gryffindors’ cheers with their own. Amongst the Ravenclaw team, Grace only recognized Meadowes, the curly-haired, tawny-skinned girl from the Prewetts’ treasure hunt, and Aubrey, one of James’s many enemies.

“ _Hellooo_ , ladies and gents,” a loud, brash voice shouted from the commentator’s booth, making Grace jolt. “Due to a mishap involving a smuggled blast-ended skrewt and a crate of Firewhiskey, Turner will not be commentating—”

“Black!” McGonagall’s reprimanding voice cut through. “The details are _not_ necessary.”

Sirius let out a magnified, ungraceful snort. “I beg to differ. In my experience, the details have always been necessary.”

“Then perhaps,” McGonagall ground out, “you should be concentrating on the small detail of announcing the teams.”

“Oh, right,” Sirius said. “Almost bloody well forgot there was a game going on.”

“Black!”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding very sorry at all.

“Oh, Merlin,” Regulus said with raised brows, “this is going to be a disaster.”

Grace glanced at him. There was a ghost of a smile lurking on her face. “Did Sirius mention to you _why_ McGonagall chose him?”

“No, but I think he might have been the only one available on such short notice.”

“Alright,” Sirius said grandly, voice booming over the stadium. “Welcome to the sixth match of the season—”

“This is the _final_ match of the season,” McGonagall said exasperatedly.

“Wow, is it really?” Sirius said. “Merlin, time does fly by, doesn’t it? Soon, we’ll be off graduating, out in the real world. Tell me honestly, Minnie—will you miss me?”

“Mr. Black,” came the seething reply, “if you wouldn’t mind focusing on the game?”

Grace got the distinct feeling that McGonagall would most definitely not miss Sirius Black once he graduated. In fact, she was willing to bet that the day Sirius Black left Hogwarts for good would probably be the same day McGonagall would smile for the first time in seven long years.

“Okay,” Sirius said, “so we’ve got the great, glorious, utterly _glamorous_ Gryffindor team lining up on the left side of the pitch: Captain and Chaser Eliza Breckenridge, fellow Chasers James Potter and Frank Longbottom, Beaters Kala Mishra and Alice Fawley, Keeper Ben Zhang, and Seeker Russell Lewis. Quite a crack team, if I do say so myself. A very difficult team to match in both talent and passion—”

“Black!”

“Okay, okay—over there, on the other end, are the Ravenclaws opposite them. You can tell ‘cause they’re wearing that bland navy blue.”

Sirius did not say anything more about the Ravenclaws, and Grace was under the impression that Sirius was not sure _who_ composed the Ravenclaw team. The Ravenclaws in the stand across from Grace’s began to shout up at the booth angrily. Something was placed over the charmed microphone, and Grace could just barely make out some muffled scolding.

Many of the Slytherins around Grace were laughing, although she couldn’t be sure if they were laughing _at_ Sirius or his antics.

“Do you think McGonagall would expel Sirius over this?” Regulus said, looking up at the booth rather worriedly.

“Nah—she’s probably just _threatening_ to expel him.”

This didn’t seem to ease Regulus in the slightest.

After a moment or two, Sirius’s voice returned: “Er—right, so, as I was saying: the Ravenclaw team. You’ve got Captain and Beater Bertram Aubrey.” Sirius’s voice held a faint strain of disgust. “Lined up besides him are Chasers Dorcas Meadowes, Amelia Bones, and—er, some bloke—”

“Linus Thompson,” McGonagall bit out.

“Wow, really?” Sirius snorted. “Linus? That’s a name?”

The Gryffindor stands burst into laughter. On the field, Linus Thompson—a scrawny third-year—looked close to tears. Regulus winced. Grace clucked her tongue in sympathy.

“Black, would you _focus_.”

Sirius coughed. “Right, and along with them is Beater Jemima Harris, Keeper Mervyn Fenwick, and Seeker—er, Professor?”

“Linda Clarke,” she snapped.

The atmosphere of the game was strange. Both Gryffindors and Slytherins—in an unexpected turn of events—were laughing their heads off gaily. The Ravenclaws were glaring daggers at the booth that held Sirius and McGonagall. One of the students in the stands attempted to hurl a shoe at the booth. It fell onto the field, where Hooch promptly levitated it back to the Ravenclaw stands.

“Captains Breckenridge and Aubrey are shaking hands—yeah, crush his hand, Eliza—”

“Black!”

“Okay, now the two captains have taken a couple steps back. Hooch is in between them, Quaffle in hand. She’s throwing it up in the air—and she’s blown her whistle! The teams are off! FUCK YES, JAMES GOT THE QUAFFLE—”

“BLACK!”

At the exact same moment, Regulus gasped out, “Sirius!”

“Sorry,” Sirius said. “It was the heat of the moment, professor. Surely you can understand.” He paused for a split second. “Actually...maybe you can’t.”

“Inappropriate language will not be tolerated, Mr. Black.”

“Duly noted,” Sirius said, but Grace had no doubt in mind that Sirius’s ‘inappropriate language’ would be making a comeback very, very soon. “Anyway, James—I mean Potter—has the Quaffle. Hooch has released the Bludgers and Snitch as well. Keep an eye on that Snitch, Lewis!”

“Black, we do not interfere with the game.”

“Professor, why are you oppressing me?”

There was another bit of muffled scolding before Sirius’s voice finally returned: “Alright, so James—I mean Potter—is angling towards the Ravenclaw’s goals and—yes!—Potter shoots, Fenwick fails to block, and that’s fifteen points to Gryffindor!”

“It’s ten points,” McGonagall said as a wave of joyous shouts issued from the Gryffindor stands. Someone in the stands was screaming the Gryffindor motto. “A Quaffle through the hoop is worth only ten points, Mr. Black.”

“Really?” Sirius said in disbelief. “But did you see James? He did like a little twirl towards the end. Surely that deserves a couple of extra points?”

“No.”

“Well—if you’re sure…. Anyway, Quaffle goes through the hoop and Meadowes dives to get it. Damn, Longbottom, are you paying attention at all? It was right there—”

“Black!”

Meadowes was now speeding to the Gryffindor goalposts, red ball held tightly in the crook of her arm. A Bludger flew past the Ravenclaw chaser, only narrowly missing her by the shoulder. Grace leaned forward in anticipation as Meadowes raised her hand, Quaffle grasped tightly.

“Mishra swings a well-aimed Bludger at Meadowes, but Meadowes swerves out of the way, Quaffle tight in hand. Meadowes speeds towards the Gryffindor goals and chucks it— _ooh_ —but Zhang swoops in and catches it before it could get through! Tough luck, Meadowes. It’s not your fault, though, Zhang _is_ the best—”

“Black!”

Meadowes scowled angrily at the commentator’s booth.

“Meanwhile, Aubrey is yelling at Fenwick about something—probably about how he’s a crap Keeper for failing to block James’s throw earlier—and Breckenridge’s got a hold of the Quaffle now. She’s weaving around the Beaters, no doubt trying to avoid catching stray Bludgers from them and— _wow_ —she passes the Quaffle in a perfect lob to James—fuck—I mean Potter—”

“Black!” McGonagall screeched.

“It’s actually sort of impressive that she hasn’t kicked Sirius out yet,” Regulus commented offhandedly.

“How much longer do you think she’ll last up in that booth with him?”

“Oh, I’m giving it another fifteen minutes, tops. Even _I_ can’t handle Sirius for that long.” Grace laughed, and Regulus beamed at her. “By the way—I dunno if your brother told you already, but Sirius said if Gryffindor wins, there’ll be a party in the Gryffindor tower.”

James had not told her, but then again Grace had hardly seen James since that fateful St. Mungo’s visit of hers. He had started acting sickeningly sweet to her ever since she had told her the news—offering to walk her to classes or sit with her at breakfast or have Remus help her with homework. If the circumstances were different, Grace would have been touched. But, now, it only served to make her feel worse than she actually did.

Grace glanced at Regulus quizzically. “Okay?”

“He said we can come, if we want to.”

Her brows rose. “Sirius invited _us_ to a _Gryffindor_ party?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure he didn’t say it as a joke?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Aaaand Potter—scores yet another goal!” Sirius announced as the Gryffindors whooped loudly. “Fenwick really seems off his game this match. Is it because he found out Macready cheated on him with Thierberry? Oh—sorry, Fenwick, I thought you knew—”

Fenwick was now angrily shouting at the commentator’s booth with one raised, shaking fist. After a few seconds, Fenwick seemed to realize that simply yelling at the booth wasn’t enough. He abandoned his goalposts entirely, clearly intending to fly towards the booth and give Sirius a piece of his mind. Hooch flew up towards Fenwick, blocking him access to the booth while Aubrey frantically tried to cover the goals for Fenwick. Amelia Bones, in the meantime, had caught the falling Quaffle and was now doing a series of complicated twists and turns to avoid the Gryffindor team from getting their hands on the ball.

“Unfortunately,” came Sirius’s loud drawl, “Zhang didn’t block Bones’s throw, and now Ravenclaw has five points—”

“Ten points—”

“Really?” Sirius said. “But she didn’t even put any flair in it like James does.”

“Black—”

“Minnie, you’ve really got to stop regulating me so much. Ah, look, I’ve missed another goal—that’s another ten points to Ravenclaw, courtesy of Meadowes!”

Meadowes did an incredible spiral in the air (probably to spite Sirius) and flew down to catch the free Quaffle she had just thrown. Fenwick had long since returned to his position as Keeper, and Aubrey, it seemed, had long since ditched his responsibilities as a Beater. He was now flitting all over the field, from Ravenclaw player to Ravenclaw player, reprimanding each and every single one of them. Meanwhile, Harris was taking on the job of two Beaters, swinging around her stout bat every couple of seconds to stop an incoming Bludger from hitting one of her teammates.

A stray Bludger went past Harris, about to hit Bones. Thankfully, Aubrey caught sight of it. He flew right for it, hitting it with his own bat and sending it hurtling towards James. The Bludger clipped James in the shoulder, knocking him back.

“Hey!” Grace cried out, rising from the stands.

“WHAT THE HELL, AUBREY? THAT WAS UNCALLED FOR. YOUR TEAM HAS THE QUAFFLE!” Sirius shouted furiously, ignoring McGonagall’s protests. “OH, JUST YOU WAIT—I’VE GOT A NEW HEX WITH YOUR NAME ON IT—”

“Yeah, me too!” Grace shouted in agreement, although neither Sirius nor Aubrey could not hear her. Regulus was tugging on her robes, frantically trying to bring her back down while the surrounding Slytherins were staring at Grace like she had just announced she was going to do a somersault in midair.

“BLACK!” McGonagall shouted. “We do not threaten the players!”

“Not even if they deserve it?”

“Black!”

“Sit down,” Regulus hissed at Grace.

Frowning, she sat besides him rigidly. “That _can’t_ be allowed, can it? James wasn’t even doing anything!”

“I don’t really think Aubrey was aiming for him—”

“Still!” she exploded. “He should be banned from Quidditch. For life. Even after Hogwarts.”

“Er…” Regulus started, unsure of what to say.

Sirius, at least, shared her sentiments: “Hooch, no offense or anything, but are you actually _doing_ anything? Surely, Aubrey should be pulled from the game—”

“Black!” McGonagall seethed. “If you deviate from the match once more—”

“Alright, _fine_ ,” Sirius grumbled. “Ah, Zhang has failed to block again, letting Meadowes score another ten points for Ravenclaw. Oh—and Clarke appears to have woken from her nap—”

“Black!”

“I mean, Clarke seems to have spotted something,” Sirius amended. The Ravenclaw Seeker burst forward with incredible speed, dancing around the outskirts of the field. “Lewis, you’d better get on this. I think she’s spotted the Snitch, mate—”

“Black, you cannot advise team members on what to do,” McGonagall said tiredly.

Clarke was whirling around the outermost edge of the field. She did look like she was chasing something, although Grace couldn’t make out if it was the Snitch or not, with how far the stands were.

“While Clarke is circling around the same area like a bloody vulture—”

“Black!”

“—Thompson steals the Quaffle from Longbottom and is hurtling towards the Gryffindor goalposts and—oh, tough luck _Linus_ —Zhang blocks and passes the Quaffle over to James—I mean Potter.” Aubrey flew over to the third-year and began to scold him. “Potter does a wonderful loop-de-loop—”

“That is called a barrel roll, not—”

“—and he SCORES!” Sirius cheered. “I’d say James is the best player on the field, wouldn’t you, Professor?”

“ _Black_ —”

“I mean, just think on it logically,” Sirius started, “he’s got the skill, he’s got the work ethic—did you know the Gryffindors start practice at _six_ in the morning on weekends? Oh, and have you even considered James _off_ the Quidditch field? He’s got wit! He’s got charm! He’s got humor! Evans—really now, why do you hate him?”

On the field, James’s face had flushed to a red that almost matched the crimson of his Quidditch uniform. Amongst the Gryffindor stands, an irritated Lily Evans was screaming at the booth. One of her friends was trying to calm her down.

“What is he _doing_?” Grace said, aghast, staring up at the booth Sirius was safely enclosed in.

“I think he’s trying to be helpful…?”

“Now is not the time to digress from the match!” McGonagall said frantically. “The Snitch—”

“OH SHIT, THE SNITCH!”

“Black!”

“Clarke has successfully spotted the Snitch and is now speeding after it. Lewis is hot on her heels, trying to gain an upper hand—they’re neck and neck now—Aubrey has also joined the chase for some reason…? But…he’s a Beater not a Seeker.”

Indeed, it seemed like Aubrey did not trust his Seeker to catch the Snitch on her own and was now tailing both Clarke and Lewis in an attempt to catch the Snitch himself.

“Could we get Hooch out on the field to make sure Aubrey hasn’t been Confunded?” Sirius continued. “I’m pretty sure if he catches the Snitch, it won’t count, right? Right?”

“You’re right,” McGonagall said dryly.

At McGonagall’s words, Aubrey slowed and hesitantly turned away from the two Seekers, flying back down to join his fellow Beater. Harris scowled upon seeing him and actually aimed a Bludger at him.

Sirius let out a great roar of laughter. “Jemima, you’re my new favorite Ravenclaw player. That was great—oh, Breckenridge scores another ten points for Gryffindor!”

Clarke and Lewis were so close to one another it was difficult to say who was ahead. Grace still couldn’t tell where the Snitch was, but by the beeline the Seekers were making for the Slytherin stands, she assumed it was coming towards them.

“If Clarke and Lewis don’t let up, they’re going to crash right into the—MERLIN’S PANTS! CLARKE PULLS UP AND BRAKES BUT LEWIS COLLIDES HEADFIRST INTO THE WOOD SUPPORT—”

Grace felt the stands wobble as Lewis hit the scaffolding. She grabbed onto Regulus’s shoulder instinctively as she teetered a bit to the left. Hooch blew her whistle and the entire game stopped for about thirty seconds as she cautiously flew towards the stands. Lewis had apparently gotten lost within the scaffolding, and Hooch was unsure as to whether or not he was conscious at all.

“Does this usually happen?” Grace asked faintly.

“No,” Regulus said. “But I should have known _something_ would happen, seeing as Sirius is commentating. It’s bad luck, I suppose.”

She nodded her agreement.

Sirius cleared his throat noisily into the charmed microphone. “During this short, unscheduled break, I’d like to take a moment to advertise Zonko’s new line of biting teacups—“

“Black! This post is not meant to serve as an advertising gig for you!”

“Really?” Sirius said, aghast. “But then how am I supposed to make money off of this? Zonko’s promised me twenty galleons if I do this bit for them.”

“You volunteered,” McGonagall hissed, and Grace got the distinct impression that the Transfiguration professor wished Sirius hadn’t volunteered.

“I don’t recall this at all,” Sirius said. “I distinctly remember you asking me to serve as commentator today.”

A short scuffle was heard, and Sirius’s voice disappeared for a couple moments as Hooch searched for Lewis. After about a minute, Lewis appeared from the other side of the scaffolding, and Hooch blew her whistle, resuming the game.

“Oh, look,” Sirius said boredly, having gotten back the megaphone. “Lewis has appeared from the other end of the stand, seemingly unscathed—MERLIN’S LEFT NUTSACK, LEWIS HAS THE SNITCH!”

Sure enough, Lewis flew back down to the field, dazed but grinning brightly, Snitch clasped tight in his left hand. The Gryffindor stands erupted into applause. The Ravenclaws besides them were shouting their discontent. The Slytherins around Grace and Regulus groaned their disappointment.

“Wow,” Sirius breathed. “I guess that’s it, huh? Gryffindor wins—as we all knew they would—two hundred to zero—”

“The score is two hundred to thirty,” McGonagall corrected, and the entire stand of Gryffindors erupted in cheers once more.

“Really?” Sirius said with heavy astonishment. “But I could’ve sworn Ravenclaw scored nothing?”

The opposing teams settled back down onto the ground, and a beaming Gryffindor team began to bow as the Ravenclaw team scattered off to the side. Aubrey had a nasty grimace on his face, but it was quickly replaced by a look of pure fear as Harris pulled him by his collar and began yelling at him furiously. Bones and Fenwick tried half-heartedly to pull Harris off of Aubrey while the other members of his team watched on with slight amusement.

Grace didn’t think Aubrey would last as captain.

“Let’s give it up for our fabulous team of Gryffindors!” Sirius’s voice echoed loudly across the field. “And let’s also give it up for Zonko’s, who’s offering a ten percent discount—”

Sirius let out a short yelp as McGonagall snatched the megaphone away from him and charmed it silent.

“Well, at least he didn’t get expelled,” Regulus said approvingly.

“Not yet…”

“Not yet,” he agreed. “So—are you going to go?”

“Go?”

“To the party? Since Gryffindor won, they’ll be hosting it. I’ll come with you, if you want to go.”

Grace’s eyes flickered down to the field, where the Gryffindors were huddled together with bright, cheery grins. Although she was feeling a bit more _lively_ now, as Regulus had put it, she didn’t really want to go to any sort of party. She wanted to relax for a bit more in the Slytherin common room before heading up to her dormitory and cocooning herself in blankets. She wanted a gentle, unassuming silence, not thunderous applause and happy chatter about the one thing Grace could not participate in.

“No,” she said. “I’m not really in the mood for a party. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” He smiled at her gently. “We can do something quiet, instead, if you want?”

“Like what?”

He thought about it for a moment. “After dinner, we can just sit and read in the common room. You can read _The Miraculous Mage_. It’ll make you feel better.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m f—”

“It’ll make you feel better,” he said again, this time softer.

She dropped her gaze to her lap. “I don’t feel like just sitting there and staring at words.”

“I can read it to you, if you want?”

She rather liked the sound of that. Regulus’s voice was a gentle thing—the sea lapping against the shore. She would be pulled from her thoughts—that swirling vortex in her head that screamed _it’s chronic, it’s chronic, it’s chronic_ without rest or respite—without having to do anything herself. Regulus’s reading would be quiet, like she wanted it to be, but not quiet enough that she’d feel alone.

“Okay,” she agreed.

* * *

Grace slipped away from Regulus after dinner under the pretense of going to the bathroom, promising him that she would find him in the common room in a bit and he could read to her until his voice gave out. He seemed a little worried, but he was always at least fifteen percent worried at any given time, so Grace didn’t give it much thought. She did, however, feel the tiniest bit guilty for having to lie to him, since, in reality, she was heading to the Hospital Wing for a check-up with Pomfrey.

The stern yet tender matron had warned Grace a couple of days ago that there was a dangerous level of strain occupying the young girl’s temples and it was only a matter of time before Grace was seized by a paroxysm. Grace was not at all happy with the news, especially since exams were coming up, but what could she do about it but lie in wait? What could she do but wake up every morning, thinking, _is today the day?_ What could she do but march on about her day, sluggish and weary and thoroughly dreading the rest of her life?

The lights of the Hospital Wing were dimmed when she got there. Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen, but Grace figured very quickly that she was likely away in her office, brewing or filing. There was only one other person besides Grace in the wing: Remus Lupin. He was settled amongst a cluster of curtains, tucked away in a cot.

“Hullo,” Grace said quietly, the soles of her shoes clicking against the tiles.

Remus glanced up, and settled a magazine he’d been reading on his lap. “Oh,” he said, smiling faintly at her. “Hello—Pomfrey’s in the back, if you need her.”

She had bumped into Remus often enough in the Hospital Wing over the past few months, when he was spending the day recuperating from a particularly nasty transformation and when she was searching for Pomfrey for a check-up. They sometimes passed the time by talking idly about classes or trading stories about James. They never asked the other _why_ they were in the Hospital Wing, partly because each of them already knew and partly because it was a sensitive subject that was better left untouched.

But tonight, Grace felt that perhaps she should ask Remus about his condition. After all, he was the only other person in Hogwarts that she knew was suffering from some illness. And it was chronic, just like how Grace’s had turned out to be. She wanted to ask him if he had ever felt like how she did—defeated and worn. She wanted to ask him what to do, because she had no idea. She didn’t know what to do with herself anymore, if there was any point in doing anything at all.

She slipped past his curtains, settling near the side of his cot. The shadows of the large room fell over her, enveloping her like a blanket.

“Remus…?” she whispered.

He shifted amongst his many pillows. “Yeah?”

“Do you think…” she fidgeted with her hands, “…that, maybe, I could ask you about something?”

“Er—yeah, I suppose, yeah. What is it?”

“It’s just—well, you know I’ve got—I’ve got _something_.” She wrung her hands nervously. “James says disease, but my Healer says condition, which I like better.”

“I like the word ‘condition’ better, too.” His voice was very kind and gentle. “You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to, Grace.”

“I know that.” She found she couldn’t quite meet his eyes, so she focused on staring into the off-white color of the tiles. They reminded her of frayed linen and her father’s hair and the walls of her bedroom. “It’s just…I dunno who else to talk to. I’m—” She stopped, not sure of the word she was looking for. It probably didn’t help that she didn’t exactly know what she felt. Was she scared? Was she upset? Was she sad? All three? “I’m lost,” she finished after a moment.

“You can talk to me,” Remus said immediately. “I promise you I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone else. Do you need help?”

Her throat was growing tight again. “When I was little, my Healer told me it was going to go away—my condition, that is. That it would be there for a while, but by the time I started Hogwarts, it would’ve waned away. But then, a few weeks ago—” Her words were coming out strangled. Her heart was thick and heavy. She didn’t know how to continue.

“It’s not going away, is it?” Remus said quietly.

She shook her head. “And—and I _know_ it’s not the same—what you’ve got and what I’ve got. ‘Cause yours is that you actually change. Physically. But mine is in my head. But you’re the only person I know who’s got a chronic condition, too. And you’ve known it was chronic for much longer than me. And—” she was rambling now, but she couldn’t devote the energy to organizing her thoughts properly, “—my mum and dad keep telling me it’s okay and that it'll get better but that’s what they said before, too. And I dunno if I believe it anymore. I guess, what I’m trying to ask is: is it really okay? Does it really get better? Or am I going to feel like this for the rest of my life?”

_Am I going to be scared and sad and upset forever?_

The answer came sooner than she expected: “Sometimes,” Remus said. “It’ll be like this sometimes, where you feel desperately alone and afraid and full of hate and loathing.”

Grace’s eyes snapped to his. “Yeah,” she croaked out. “It’s like that. I know it’s stupid, but I keep thinking that this just isn’t—”

“Fair?” he finished humorlessly. “Yeah, I’ve been there. Trust me.” He let out a lengthy sigh, shifting in his cot a bit. “For a long time, it was just me, my mum, and my dad. It was just the three of us that knew. Dad wouldn’t let me play with other kids. And Mum _tried_ to make me feel better about all of it. But I just couldn’t help thinking that this was just _shit_ , you know? Every other child I saw seemed to be having a grand old time except for me. Every other child got to play in the mud and have sleepovers except for me. I didn’t even think I was going to go to Hogwarts. Dad certainly didn’t think so. What school would let a werewolf in?”

Grace’s brows were faintly furrowed. “But you’re here now.”

“Yeah, because of Dumbledore. He was understanding about it, said he didn’t see why I couldn’t come and learn just like any other student.” Remus’s lips lifted into a light smile. “That was the first time anyone actually made it seem like being a werewolf wasn’t a big deal, and it was so wonderful.”

“Yeah,” Grace agreed. “My mum and dad didn’t want me to come either, but Dumbledore convinced them otherwise, too. I didn’t think it was such a big deal, me going to Hogwarts. But they did. It was only because they were afraid I’d get worse here, since—well—have you ever heard of Hywell’s disease?”

“No, sorry.”

“It’s where you can’t channel your magical energy properly,” Grace explained, voice hushed and shadowed, almost like she was confessing murder to Remus. “The energy just builds and builds in your temples until you can’t handle the strain anymore, and just fit it out for hours and hours. And then your body shuts down—”

“Merlin,” Remus said with raised brows. “And that’s yours?”

“Yeah,” Grace murmured. “It’s not as frequent as yours, though. Just every couple of months, but it does last longer.” She sighed. “It’s just that I don’t want anyone to know, because it doesn’t actually _sound_ so bad. It sounds like you just seize for a bit, and then it’s done. But it’s not. It’s like—it’s like—” she gnawed at her bottom lip viciously, “—my skull’s being cracked open and my brain’s being ripped apart. People don’t understand. My neighbors know about it, but they think I’m just some weak, little girl who can’t use her magic properly. It’s not _like_ that though. You know—James told me that when I was nine, I went into a paroxysm while I was playing in the garden and I tried to gouge my eyes out with spade. It’s not _just_ —” She broke off, unsure of what she was trying to accomplish by giving Remus so much detail. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be so…you know. It’s just frustrating.”

“It’s okay,” he said kindly. “I understand. Once, I broke out of my parent’s basement mid-transformation and booked it into the forest. It took them a whole day to find me.”

“Oh, no—were you okay?”

“Dad was furious, of course. But it wasn’t a very big deal. I was only six then—a baby werewolf.”

Grace couldn’t help but snort at the image. “A _baby_ werewolf?”

“They exist,” he insisted. “Anyway—so your parents thought your condition would get worse at Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, because there’s so much magical energy here.” Grace slid down onto one of the chairs by the cot. “Maybe they were right. It’s chronic now, so maybe Hogwarts _did_ make it worse.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

Grace grunted noncommittally.

“When did you find out?”

“A few weeks ago.”

Remus nodded slowly. “I suppose that’s why James was asking me if I could spare time to help you with homework?”

Grace groaned. “I _told_ him not to do that. I mean, it is nice of James to not be a massive prick all the time, but I sort of just want things to go back to normal. I just want to _be_ normal. And when he starts offering to do this and that for me, I just—it’s—it’s _embarrassing_.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about accepting help,” Remus said softly. “Even if you don’t really want it or need it, you should know James is doing it out of kindness. He’s not mocking you or anything like that.”

She deflated. “I _know_ that. It’s just…”

“You want it to be because you’re his sister and not because you’re his _sick_ sister?”

She winced. “Yeah.”

“The first thing you’ve got to do is just accept it,” Remus said gently. “I know you don’t want to, but it’s how it is now. When you can get past the word _disease_ without feeling bad or good about it, when it’s just another word, that’s when it’ll get better.”

This was the hardest thing Grace had ever been asked to do. “I don’t—” she started thickly. “I mean— _how_? _How_ can I do that?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Remus’s gaze wavered to his lap. “It’s on and off. There are times when I just think, ‘Yeah, this is part of my life. This is part of me, but it’s not the whole of me.’ And I can look past the whole werewolf thing. And then there are days and days, when I just _hate_ everything. I don’t really know if it gets better than that, but I hope so.”

Grace hoped so, too. She hoped fiercely, ferociously, for the day everything would be better. She dreamed of it, pined for it. She half-thought that, one day, she would just wake up, and her condition would be gone. She didn’t want to _do_ anything; she wanted it to simply vanish on its own. She wanted everything that was wrong in her life to simply pack up and leave.

She did not want to _accept_ her condition, only because she didn’t think she could, only because she didn’t think she was strong enough to welcome what she despised most. How could she do that? She wanted to feel better, yes, but she couldn’t bear the thought of parting with her loathing and envy. The feeling was so ingrained in her, she couldn’t imagine a moment without it.

“What do you do?” Grace asked at last. “What do you do to make yourself feel better?”

Remus cast her a long look. “I did what you did, once,” he sighed. “I kept it all to myself first year, and some of second, too. I thought it’d be better if I didn’t tell anyone, if I just kept it to myself. I mean—it’s not exactly the type of thing that’s well-received, is it?” He fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “But that just made me more anxious and paranoid. I kept wondering if people noticed, especially my friends, because of all the time I was spending in the Hospital Wing and all the shoddy excuses I was making. And I felt desperately lonely, too. I knew I _had_ friends, but when my condition got bad, when I’d had a rough night and couldn’t tell anyone, I felt so isolated. Cut off. That, coupled with the fact that my mates would probably figure out on their own soon enough, had me thinking that I might as well tell them myself.” He looked to her. “And you know what happened?”

She smiled wanly. “James thought it was wicked?”

He snorted. “He did, actually. But, more than that—I felt better.”

“Really? But it’s not like anything actually changed. Anything related to your condition, that is.”

“No,” he agreed, “but it was how I was dealing with it. It was horrible having to sit with this on my conscience without anyone else knowing. When I told my mates, they helped me, supported me, teased me, comforted me—just…made me feel better. They understood—not _really_ , of course, but they tried, in their own way.” He smiled. “It made me feel accepted. It made me feel loved, and that makes all the difference.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Grace fidgeted. “I can’t just tell someone. I’m not that brave.”

“You told me,” Remus said simply.

“But you understand what it’s like. I don’t know if I could tell just _anyone_.”

“I’m not saying you should tell _anyone_. Tell only the people you trust. Tell only the person you’d go to for help.”

“Yeah, of course.” Grace swallowed thickly. “But it’s the _telling_ part that’s difficult.”

His eyes found hers once more—dark green into light brown, grass against soil. “If they’re really your friend, you won’t have to do much telling.”

* * *

Grace put off following Remus’s advice for a few days, eventually deciding that it was best to tell Regulus about her condition until after exams were finished. After all, the boy was already a nervous wreck. He was entirely too preoccupied about exams, spending practically every free minute he had with his head bent over his textbooks or notes. Grace, for her part, wasn’t very worried about exams. (She had spent so much time at Regulus’s side, that she was almost certain she had picked up enough material purely through osmosis.) She was more worried about her impending paroxysm. As the days drew closer, as exams week fell upon Hogwarts, her worry only increased.

It was two days into exams, in the middle of the DADA written portion, when Grace felt a tell-tale ache in her temples. It was as though her head was slowly being squeezed by two great, heavy walls. It was as though there was an army marching along the sides of her skull, one million feet pounding away, stomping on her head.

“Er—professor—?” Grace called out in the middle of the exam.

Sanderson looked up, and pursed his lips. “Miss Potter, there is _no_ talking—”

“I’m not feeling too well. Could I go to the Hospital Wing?”

He narrowed his eyes down at her. “Are you _sure_ you’re feeling ill?”

“Yes,” Grace said, voice hard. She winced as what felt like lightning flashed through her head. “I’m—I’ve—”

“I am well aware of the tricks first-years play to get out of exams,” Sanderson began pompously. “Once you’ve finished, you’re more than welcome to—”

“It really can’t wait—”

“Miss Potter, I simply cannot condone anymore disruptions. This is an _exam_ , as you well know—”

Her vision was fading in and out. Her head felt too heavy to carry. She needed to _go_. If everyone saw, if everyone knew—that would be the end of her. She couldn’t bear the thought.

With gritted teeth, Grace took her exam in her hands and ripped it clean in half. “Sod your exam,” she spat, and threw it onto the floor.

The entire class was staring at her, some with a mixture of awe, others looking rightly horrified. Sanderson, in the front, was gaping at her like she had just admitted to illegally poaching dragons. With one last dark glare at her Defense professor, Grace strode to the front of the classroom, opened the door, and left. She hurried down to the Hospital Wing, and it was just as she crossed the threshold that the world went dark.

She awoke only three days later, with her parents fussing around her, with James telling her how _wicked_ she was for telling Sanderson off, with Pomfrey administering draughts and stern reminders for Grace not to exert herself. It was only in the evening, when they had all gone, that Grace was _really_ able to rest.

With a sense of resignation, Grace began flipping through a tabloid magazine James had given her before he left. She had just started wondering _why_ James had gotten her this when she finally reached a short article about a new album being released by the Hobgoblins.

“ _Yes_!” she breathed, and voraciously read through the passage.

“Er—hullo?”

She glanced up, and saw Regulus, standing at the threshold of her parted curtains, hand running up and down along the strap of his bag.

“Oh,” she said, and reluctantly set her magazine down. “Hello—do you want to sit?”

He slid onto one of the many chairs that had been conjured around Grace’s cot. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“You know,” he started rather fiercely, “what Sanderson did was wrong. The whole school’s found out about it. I’ll admit—I was a bit worried when you tore your exam, but it seems to have just made you into some sort of martyr figure.”

Grace had heard all about this from James. The story had spread through Hogwarts like wildfire. Even her parents had found out about it, and, once they did, they very quickly made known their feelings about Sanderson: Mum, James recounted with lit eyes, had gotten so riled up after demanding an explanation from the Defense professor that she hexed him with the Bat-Bogey. 

Grace smiled faintly. “Yeah, I know. James told me some other students had similar issues with Sanderson, and they’ve all been submitting complaints about him to Dumbledore or something.”

“Yeah,” Regulus nodded. “And it worked. He’s been sacked.”

“What— _really_?” Grace exclaimed. “Thank Merlin. If he lasted another year, I’m not sure what I would have done. The workload for that class is _crushing_.”

“It is,” he agreed. He paused for a moment, and then asked, again, “Are you _actually_ okay now? Has this got to do with the thing your Healer can’t figure out?”

“Okay…so…” Grace found she couldn’t quite meet Regulus’s eyes, so she stared down at her lap. “Here’s the thing…my Healers _do_ know what’s wrong. I—I’ve known for a while, actually. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I just didn’t know _how_. It’s just—oh, I still don’t know how to say this.” Grace bored holes into the linen of her sheets. _If they’re really your friend_ , Remus had said, _you won’t have to do much telling._ Regulus had read so much over the past year, he was practically a walking encyclopedia. He might have already heard of her condition. “Have you ever come across something called Hywell’s disease?”

“Yes,” he said very softly. “Is that what you’ve got?”

Grace’s throat was so tight, it was a miracle she managed to let out her quiet, strangled, “Yeah.”

“Oh.” There was a long stretch of silence, and then Regulus said, in a tone that very much reminded Grace of the way he memorized flashcards, “That’s a magical energy disorder, right?”

“Yeah,” she croaked out. “Er—how do you know about it?” Not many people did. It was such an old, rare disease that the only people who really did know of it were Healers or historical writers.

“Okay, so, remember when you told me I shouldn’t do anymore medical research?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I didn’t stop,” he admitted. “I hope you’re not angry about it. I sort of figured you were keeping something to yourself, and I knew it must have been something serious or maybe something your parents didn’t want anyone to know about, so I didn’t press you about it. But I was still worried. I wanted to know if I could help you, especially during the past few weeks, because you seemed so—I dunno— _not_ you. But I couldn’t help without knowing the problem first, so I tried to figure out what was wrong.” He let out a breath. “I didn’t know you had Hywell’s, though. I just saw it come up in the books I checked out, but I didn’t think you had…it’s rather rare, isn’t it?”

At the end of his little speech, Grace found the tightness in her throat ease. Warmth flooded through her chest. She looked up at Regulus, and found that his brows were drawn together anxiously.

“Yeah, it’s rare,” she said. “And, of course I’m not angry about you doing research. I guess I should’ve figured you wouldn’t have stopped.” She sighed. “I didn’t want to tell anyone about it, because I thought people would make fun of me for it or not want to be friends with me.”

“Well, some people are stupid,” Regulus said matter-of-factly. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but _I’m_ not stupid.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that. “Yeah, you’re not,” she agreed, and suddenly it became so very easy to talk to him about this. “You’re absolutely not.”

“Did you only just get diagnosed a few weeks ago? Is that why you’ve been so—” he waved his hand about uselessly, “you know?”

“Oh, no,” Grace said, shaking her head. “I’ve had this my whole life.”

His brows lifted. “But then…?”

Her eyes flickered back down to her lap. She wasn’t very distressed or upset about it anymore, not to the depth she had been since before she spoke to Remus. But she still didn’t like the word— _chronic_. It sounded hopeless.

“Since I was little, everyone’s been saying it would go away. I always thought that once I start Hogwarts, it would be gone and I could just be like any other kid.” She scratched at the cloth of her cot. “But, a few weeks ago, I found out it’s not going away. My Healer says it’ll be there for the rest of my life.”

“Oh—I’m sorry, Grace.”

She shrugged half-heartedly. “Whatever,” she said rather miserably. “It’s also why I can’t play Quidditch. Broomsticks have a lot of powerful charms on them, which can interfere with my magical energy.”

“Right,” he said, almost absently.

Grace glanced at him again, and found his brows were furrowed in deep thought. His lips were twisted into an unhappy little grimace.

“What is it?” she probed.

“It’s just—” he began, struggling, “—you were saying your Healer thought it would go away, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And then your Healer said it’s not going away?”

“Yeah.”

“So…if they were wrong once, who’s to say they’re not again?”

Her brows shot up. “Er—I dunno—”

“I mean, Hywell’s is _incredibly_ rare. I don’t know if there have been any cases in modern times, except for you—”

“There have been a couple others, maybe one or two,” Grace interjected.

“Still,” Regulus—ever sensible, ever rational—said, “that’s hardly enough to draw a conclusion from. I’m betting they’re using _old_ cases, from the past. But things have changed since then. It wouldn’t be an accurate comparison. If your Healer was wrong the first time, they might be again. Your condition—” and Grace liked the way he used that word without any prompting, “—might go away on its own after all. No one can know for sure.”

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t like the sound of that. “Maybe,” she granted. “But I dunno if I’m that lucky.”

“You are,” he insisted. “You’ve gotten away with a number of escapades this year with an inexplicably low amount of detentions.”

The corners of Grace’s lips quirked upwards.

“Besides, even if it turns out this is actually permanent…I think we could figure something out,” he said confidently. “We’ve figured out loads of things together this year—how to deliver ninety-nine Howlers to your brother, and how to spike the Ravenclaws’ drinks with the Babbling Beverage, and how to solve the Prewetts’ whole treasure hunt—so we can definitely figure this out, too. We’re clever, you and I.”

For the first time in weeks, Grace actually felt better. She knew she was only one of a few with a condition like this in recent history, that the cards were stacked against her, that it might be a very long time before any cure was discovered, if there was a cure at all. But, somehow, all those details hardly mattered right now. What mattered was that Regulus was there. What mattered was that someone who wasn’t her mother or her father or her brother knew. What mattered was that Regulus did not have to help her, but he was choosing to anyway. It made Grace feel very special.

“We’re clever,” she agreed warmly.

* * *

_Name one major cause behind the rebellion Ulfric the Unusual led in the thirteenth century._

Grace stared at her exam paper in despair. When had they ever learned this?

“Oh, bugger,” she sighed, and promptly began scribbling something down about how Ulfric must have been bored with the lack of games and entertainment in his tribe. Thus, he ventured out into the world, and found a momentary respite from crushing, stifling boredom by massacring dozens of wizards.

This was the last exam Grace had to make up before she was free to enjoy the last few days of term. As such, she was more concerned about getting done with the exam as quickly as possible than actually doing well on it. As soon as she was done with the last page, she rolled up her parchment without double-checking it and bounded up to Binns’s desk.

“I’ve finished,” Grace announced happily, plopping her papers in front of Binns, covering the dull book he was reading.

Binns looked up, startled. His brows furrowed. “Miss Potter—when did you arrive here?”

“Er—like a few hours ago?” she said slowly. She noticed, for the first time, that Binns had ghost glasses—small, thick-rimmed frames that were nestled onto the crook of his nose. How did that work, exactly?“You gave me this exam, remember?”

“I see,” he hummed, and glanced down at her untidy scrawl. “Oh, dear, goblins were absolutely _not_ threatened by the domestication of Mooncalves. It was when the Ministry banned goblins and other creatures of a similar ilk from using and obtaining wands that tensions reached an all-time high.”

“Oh,” Grace said. A beat passed, and then she said, “But you can’t say for sure they _weren’t_ threatened by the Mooncalves, can you?”

He let out a lengthy sigh. “I suppose I would have to review my notes to be certain.”

She beamed, and bounded back to her desk to pack up her quill and ink pot. “By the way, professor,” she called back, “are you _ever_ going to tell me how you became a ghost?”

“I have told you many times now that I became a ghost after dying.”

“Yeah, but _how_ did you die?” She returned back to his desk, knapsack secured tightly over her shoulder. “Please, sir, you’ve got to tell me. I’ve been trying to find out all year. I reckon it must be something incredible—like, dueling a dark sorcerer or chasing after a dragon or battling an Erumpent or—”

“These are childish notions,” he sniffed. “Not all ghosts have such _elaborate_ backstories. I will tell you, quite simply, how I came to pass.”

Grace leaned forward in anticipation.

“It was of old age—nothing more, nothing less. One day, I went for a nap. When I awoke, I was a ghost.”

Grace’s shoulders slumped.

“Of course,” Binns continued on, “I am not one to let death interfere with myself and my goals. I went on teaching—edifying young minds, showing them the rich tapestry that is the history of wizardkind—”

“That’s great and all, professor,” Grace said rather glumly, turning to leave, “but I sort of expected something more. It doesn’t really sound like you had a very bold, brave death.”

Binns looked at her for a long moment. Just as Grace was beginning to wonder if he had fallen into some sort of catatonic state, the ghost spoke, low and deep, “Sometimes, the bravest thing you do isn’t always the loudest. Sometimes, it is quiet and simple, and no one ever notices.”

Now it was her turn to stare at him. How could his falling asleep be brave? Bravery was her dad telling an irritated board of directors that he was selling off Sleekeazy’s to spend time with his children, and he would not take no for an answer. Bravery was her mum hexing Sanderson in the face after yelling at him for twenty minutes straight, asking him if he had always found it so difficult to do the decent thing. Bravery was her brother being bucked off his first real broomstick and promptly getting back onto it.

How could bravery be a _quiet_ thing? Grace had only ever seen it be done loudly—with pomp and dramatics and laughter.

“No offense, sir,” she started, “but I think that’s bollocks.”

“No use arguing with a child,” he murmured to himself. “I will see you next term, Miss Potter.”

“Oh, wait!” Grace said. “I actually had another question: why is it you call me Miss Potter when you get everyone else’s names wrong?”

Binns pursed his lips. “I will not stand for slander,” he said imperiously. “Of course I know the names of my students. You are Alice Potter, and—”

Grace’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “Hold on— _Alice_ Potter? That’s my _great-aunt_! Did you think I was my great-aunt this whole time? Merlin, sir, how long have you been dead for?”

He simply let out another sigh at her before turning around, floating towards the blackboard. “That, my dear girl, is a question for another year.”

* * *

The majority of Grace’s last day at Hogwarts was spent in the Divination classroom, where Gideon and Fabian (perhaps in a last-ditch attempt to pass the class) had put on a surprise party for Vablatsky.

Most of the chairs in the classroom had been magicked away, and the tables were pushed off to the side, laden with a slew of snacks: cauldron cakes, pumpkin pasties, jelly slugs, and so on. There were bright, colorful streamers floating around the ceiling, clashing terribly with the equally bright, patterned curtains that were strung about the room. The Prewetts had even hung up some sort of mirrored ball from the center of the ceiling. When the light streamed in from the narrow windows and hit it, the walls were covered in dazzling shimmers.

The Prewetts had also, much to Vablatsky’s delight, managed to smuggle in an entire crate of Firewhiskey. Nearly all the seventh-years were partaking in the drink, and Grace, wanting to join in, had asked if she could try some. The entire class’s response to this simple request was to move the bottles onto a high shelf, where Grace could not reach.

The young girl glared at the out-of-reach bottles. She dug her wand out of her pocket. “Wingardium—”

“Protego,” Andromeda said immediately, protecting the Firewhiskey.

Grace whipped around. “I just want a _little_ ,” she pleaded, “not the whole thing. Can’t I have that?”

“No,” Andromeda said. She, at least, was not teasing Grace with a bottle of Firewhiskey in her hands. Instead, the older girl was munching on a few gingersnaps. “You’re not of age. You know that.”

“Okay, but I’ll be of age when I’m seventeen. I’m twelve right now, which means I’m well over half-way there. That means I should get at least _half_ a bottle of—”

“No,” Andromeda said again.

“Here, have some Butterbeer instead,” Ted suggested. He reached behind her, where a bunch of non-alcoholic drinks had been conjured, to hand her a bottle.

“I don’t want _baby_ drinks!” Grace said indignantly.

“That’s too bad,” a nearby Gideon said, clucking his tongue sympathetically, “because, as we all well know, babies _have_ to drink baby drinks.”

“I’m _tw—_!” she seethed.

“What’s that?” Gideon interrupted, jeering. “ _Two_?”

Before Grace had the chance to throw a few creative expletives his way, Andromeda lazily flicked her wand. Gideon yelped, and his mouth snapped shut, lips seemingly glued together.

“Nice one, Black,” Fabian commented appreciatively.

“All in a day’s work,” she said breezily, dropping her outstretched wand back into her pocket. Her gaze found Grace’s once more. “And the answer is still no, you cannot have any Firewhiskey.”

Grace glowered. “You lot are the _worst_ group of seventh-years I’ve ever met.”

Ted snorted at her. “Sorry for disappointing you with our staunch morals and sense of responsibility.”

“It’s just a little—just a _sip_!” Grace muttered to herself.

She crossed her arms over her chest, and darkly surveyed the rest of the students in the class. Most of them, like Andromeda and Ted, were simply lounging and chatting about post-graduation plans. Fabian was cautiously approaching Vablatsky with the intention to have the wizened witch bring his failing grade up to an A. Gideon was nonverbally attempting to unstick his lips.

The only person who wasn’t socializing—who didn’t seem to be having even the _slightest_ bit of fun—was Avery. He was sitting on a dresser pushed to the back of the cramped classroom, partially eclipsed by the leaves of a tall ficus. His eyes fluttered about the room. In his right hand was a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey.

Quietly, Grace slipped away from Andromeda, and padded towards Avery. He was rather helpful, and always seemed to give into Grace’s requests without much opposition. Perhaps he would help her with her quest.

“Hey,” she said when she was close enough, trying to seem as casual as possible, “would you snag me some Firewhiskey?”

He glanced down at her, face unreadable. “Sure.”

Her face broke into a grin. “ _Really_ —”

“No, of bloody course not,” he said. “Who in their right mind would willingly give an eleven-year-old hard alcohol?”

“I’m _twelve_.”

“Oh, my bad,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “In that case, shall I fetch you some of Ogden’s finest?”

“Well…if it’s no trouble….”

He snorted. “You’re out of your mind, Potter.”

“It’s just a sip!” Grace said, huffing and crossing her arms over her chest. “You lot are no fun.”

“Sweet Circe,” Avery muttered to himself, “I hope I never have children.”

“Really?” Grace said. “Because I think you’d make a perfect parent, to be honest.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “And _why_ in Merlin’s name do you think that?”

“Because you suck the fun out of everything, so naturally—”

“Ah, there’s the rub,” he said, rolling his eyes and taking another swig of his own Firewhiskey.

Grace stared longingly at the bottle in his hand before hopping up onto the dresser besides him. “Budge over,” she said, knocking at his long legs with her own.

Avery grumbled under his breath, but made some room nonetheless. “Why’ve you decided to come torment me?” he asked.

“I dunno. I saw you were sitting alone. Do you not like parties?”

“I don’t understand why they put this on.” His eyes roved over the classroom once more. “It’s not exactly a joyous occasion, is it?”

“It isn’t?” Grace questioned, surveying the room.

Everyone seemed quite cheery: Vablatsky was smiling deviously at Fabian while she chugged down the smuggled Firewhiskey. Gideon, who had at last managed to unglue his lips, was lazily charming streamers to tangle themselves around Khan’s arms and legs. Andromeda and Ted had retreated to their own, private corner, and were smiling so brightly at one another that Grace was momentarily blinded.

“If I could,” Avery began with far too much solemnity than Grace felt was appropriate for a goodbye party, “I’d repeat this all over again, right from first year, from the moment I got off the train.”

“That’d be sort of tiresome, though, wouldn’t it?” Grace said. “Going through it all over again. There’d be no surprises.”

Avery shrugged. “I just don’t want to leave. The seven years I’ve spent here…they’ve been the best of my life. Once I graduate, it’ll all just be gone. There’s no coming back. There won’t be anymore Dueling Club. I won’t have anyone to practice Seeing with. There won’t even be a moment to relax. And—” Avery’s voice dropped to a shadow of a whisper, “—I don’t even know if I’ll see Francis again.”

“Oh,” Grace said, startled that Avery had even brought up Francis without any probing. “Well, it’s not like it’ll really be _gone_ , right? You’ll still remember it.”

“Yes, but…it’s not the same as actually living it, is it?” Avery sighed. “Merlin, what I’d do to go back and just repeat seventh-year. It was the best, you know?” He cracked a smile at her. “You won’t have as many classes to worry about. You’ll likely have your career all figured out within the first couple of months. Everything is just so _carefree_.”

“You don’t think you’ll be carefree once you graduate?”

His smile fell in an instant. “No, not really. Doesn’t really come with the job I’m taking on.”

Grace’s forehead creased. “What do you mean? Are you wrangling fire crabs or something?”

“Or something,” he said, and his tone was so severe that Grace felt compelled to apologize for broaching the subject to begin with. “It’s just that—well, wouldn’t you prefer sticking with what you know instead of wading out into—”

“Is that the sound of someone grumbling about the unknown?” Vablatsky said cheerily as she strode towards them.

Avery’s head shot up. “Oh—er—sorry, professor, I was just—”

“Thinking about your future?” she said with a knowing gleam in her eyes. Her hands disappeared into the pockets of her robes for a moment, and reappeared with a deck of tarot cards. “Care for a reading, Mr. Avery?”

“You want to do a reading for _me_?” Avery said in shock. “Now?”

“Well, if you want to make an appointment, I’ll have you know it’s a four month wait.”

“Now is good,” Avery said immediately.

Grace glanced down at the cards grasped in Vabaltsky’s wrinkled hands, and blinked in surprise as she recognized them. They had the same pale yellow backs that hers did. “Whoa—I think I’ve got the same cards as you, professor.”

She turned her light blue eyes onto Grace. “Really?” she said. “I suppose you can help me, then.”

“I can?”

“Oh, yes—give me your opinion and all.”

A smile flitted across Grace’s lips. “Alright,” she agreed easily, and began to watch as the older witch shuffled the cards.

“You will be joining my class again next year, won’t you?” Vablatsky asked as she passed the cards over her hands.

Grace’s eyes snapped up to meet Vablatsky’s eerily pale ones. “Er—I dunno. I don’t think so, right? I don’t need to take Flying as a second-year, so I’ll probably just have normal classes with the rest of my classmates.”

“Oh, no, my dear—I did not mean you should take my class as a substitute for another. I meant you should take it as an extra class. I will speak to Dumbledore about it.”

Grace’s brows rose. “Er—wait, you _want_ me to take it again?”

“Of course,” Vablatsky said. “You have great potential. It would be a shame to see it go untapped. So, what do you say?”

“Well—I—if Dumbledore—I _suppose_ —” Grace spluttered out eventually.

“Wonderful,” Vablatsky beamed. She fanned out her cards, and locked eyes with Avery. “Are you ready?”

His hands ghosted over the cards. “Yes.”

With the care of a gardener pruning a bonsai, Avery picked out three cards. Vablatsky conjured a table between the two of them, and Avery laid out each card, face-down, onto it. Vablatsky reached out a hand and flipped over the first of the cards.

It was of a blindfolded, dark-haired woman sitting on a stone bench. In each of her hands was a raised longsword. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and each sword pointed in a direction opposite from the other. Beyond the woman was a calm sea with a few craggy rocks poking out from the surface.

“Hmm…” Vablatsky said, surveying the card closely. “Miss Potter?”

“Er—yeah?”

“What do you think?”

Grace’s eyes flickered down the cards once more. At first glance, Grace would say this was something of a dangerous situation, perhaps an emerging conflict. But then she realized how _composed_ the woman seemed. She didn’t seem the least bit frightened about having two swords grasped heavily in her palms. She was simply sitting and thinking, perhaps about what to do with her swords, perhaps about which one to choose.

“It seems like there’s a difficult choice?” Grace decided at last. “Or maybe there already has been one.”

Avery glanced at her surreptitiously.

“Very perceptive,” Vablatsky noted, and turned over the second card.

It was the Wizard. He was in a deep red robe, poring over his workbench, a candle held tightly in his right hand. Over the table were some goblets and vials, tools for alchemy. Grace knew full well that this was meant to showcase transformation—the ability to change oneself or one’s circumstance—but, more than that, it was showing the power of determination, to keep moving forward, to insist on change even if it wasn’t always possible.

“Willpower,” Grace breathed.

Vablatsky reached for the final card.

It was the five of goblets: a grey-haired woman in a long jet-black robe staring down solemnly at three fallen cups. The spilled liquid was blood red. Behind the woman were two more cups. It was unclear if they would fall soon or not. If the woman stepped back, perhaps out of shock or hesitation or defeat, then she would knock over the last two. Then, she would have nothing left.

“Of course,” Avery muttered, having likely come to the same conclusion, and jerked his head away from the cards.

“Nothing is certain,” Vablatsky told him quietly. She looked at Grace. “What do you See?”

“I think it’s…” her eyes found Avery’s, “a chance.”

“So?” Avery asked Vablatsky stiffly, waiting on the verdict.

“What was your question?”

“It was more of a situation, really, but…I suppose it could be summed up as a question. I just wanted to know if...I—” he shook his head, and his shoulders slumped. “Will everything be alright?”

Vablatsky’s pale eyes flickered over the cards once more. Softly, gently, she said, “Only if you don’t give up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter written (with the exception of the last scene) for a very long time, and I’m so, so happy I’m finally at the point where you all get to read it! This is actually the second to last chapter, so the next chapter (number twenty!) will be the final one. There’s going to be a sequel (of course), which is going to be a fix-it/everyone lives AU fic that takes place during Grace’s seventh year. I want to have the final chapter of this fic and the first chapter of the sequel go up on the same day, so it’ll be a bit longer than usual for the next update.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos! Do leave comments with your thoughts; they’re so encouraging and wonderful to read.


	20. Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace spends the first half of her summer tormenting (and, on occasion, being tormented by) her brother. She spends the second half searching for Andromeda.

“Oh, _darling_ , doesn’t James look absolutely precious in this one?”

Grace craned her neck over her mother’s shoulder and saw, to her great amusement, a photograph of James throwing a tantrum. An indifferent Grace, about two years old, was in the background, settled on her father’s lap. Mum, in the photo, was trying to slip an adorable wombat onesie onto toddler James, much to his displeasure.

James scowled at Grace’s side. He threw back his head and whined, “ _Mum_ , why are we going through these?”

“Hush now,” Mum scolded quietly. “Your aunt has very kindly brought all these out—”

“Look!” Aunt Dorea exclaimed, reentering the sitting room with two more photo albums cradled in her arms. She smiled brightly, dark eyes lit with cheer. “I’ve found a few more—one of Ollie’s and one with just a _slew_ of pictures of little Gracie.”

Grace made a disgruntled little noise in the back of her throat. While she had thrown significantly fewer strops in her childhood than James, she did cry a whole lot more. She had no doubt in her mind that the majority of the photo album would be filled with pictures of her bawling her eyes out—likely because James had pushed her or stuck his tongue out at her or stolen a toy of hers.

Cousin Ollie, in his little armchair across from Mum, grimaced at the mention of yet another photo album. He was light-haired, like his mother, and significantly older than James and Grace, having graduated from Hogwarts only two years ago. “Er—maybe we could do something different?” he said. “It’s a nice day out. Why should we waste it sitting indoors looking at old, dusty photos?”

Mum looked at Ollie like he had just suggested she toss her children out the window. “It’s nice nearly every day out,” she said primly, “but how many days do we actually spend together, as a family?”

“Effie, why not let the kids have fun in the gardens?” Dad suggested. He, too, seemed rather bored. His head was lolled back on the plush sofa, and he was stifling a yawn.

James perked up. “Yeah, we can do the maze!”

“No maze,” Mum said sharply. “Merlin only knows how many children have gotten lost in there.”

“We’re not _children_ ,” Grace said indignantly. “I’m almost a teenager.”

James nodded along enthusiastically. “I _am_ a teenager! I’m old—soon I’ll be as old as you, Mum, with the—” he gestured at her grey-streaked hair. “I’m old enough for the maze now!”

Mum gave her son a withering glance. “Old as me…?”

He froze. “Er—I mean—” He glanced helplessly at Grace.

“He means you’re old, Mum,” Grace supplied. “No point beating around the bush. It happens.” She patted her hand against her mum’s elbow in sympathy.

Mum’s lips pressed into a thin line.

James valiantly tried to save the situation from escalating further by hastily adding, “But all mums are old! Look—Ollie’s mum is old, too—”

Both of Aunt Dorea’s brows rose. Uncle Charlus, besides Dad, snorted loudly, but quickly ducked his head when his wife shot him a dark glare.

“Perhaps the kids are getting bored, all cooped up in here,” Uncle Charlus coughed out, avoiding Aunt Dorea’s eyes. “Er—why not let them go out?”

“I’m almost tempted to let them disappear into the maze,” Mum murmured to no one in particular.

“I’ll be there, Aunt Effie,” Ollie declared, rising from his chair. He stretched his arms up. He was tall, with gangly limbs and a thin, long face. “We’ll stay together. Besides—if they get lost, they can send up sparks now, right?” His dark eyes swung to James and Grace. “Have you two got your wands?”

“Of course they don’t—” Mum began, but James and Grace were already pulling theirs out. James’s was hidden in the waistband of his trousers. Grace had hers stuck in a tangle in her thick, long hair. “Oh, Merlin,” Mum sighed to herself.

Dad laughed, amused. “Just take them, Ollie. I reckon they’re getting a bit stir crazy.”

“But stick with your cousin,” Mum told her kids warningly. “And you’re _not_ allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts unless it is absolutely, life-threateningly necessary.”

“Oh, come now, Euphemia,” Uncle Charlus started, “as though we didn’t all go about doing underage magic—”

Aunt Dorea coughed loudly and pointedly at her husband, her eyes narrowed into slits at him. “Don’t encourage them, darling,” she said, and although the words seemed sweet, they came out rather sharply. “You do remember what happened during Christmas of last year, don’t you?”

Uncle Charlus winced, no doubt recalling how James, who had snuck his wand into the festivities despite his mother’s warnings, cast a repulsing charm (on a dare from Grace) that ended up sending platters of roast pig and potatoes smashing against the ceiling. It had been a rather big event—with Ministry workers and socialites—and ended up being called off, due to all the food having been ruined. James and Grace had not been invited back for another Christmas party.

“Let’s go,” Ollie said brightly, gathering up his younger cousins. “I still haven’t figured out the maze yet, but—”

“But _I_ can,” James said resolutely, swaggering towards the open door.

“No, _I_ can,” Grace said with just as much determination.

She followed her brother down the winding stairwell, finally bursting out through the open door. Sunlight streamed through the wisps of white clouds endlessly, lighting the entirety of Uncle Charlus and Aunt Dorea’s estate. Their manor, a large, yellow-brick building with a thatched roof, sat in the center of a sprawling garden. The grounds were filled with rows of hedges and exotic plots of plants. There was an encased Venomous Tentacula somewhere behind the house, although Grace was not sure if it was still there, since it had almost bitten James’s hand clean off when he was six.

“Ollie,” James asked suddenly as they strolled through the gardens, “are you an Auror?”

Ollie looked down at James, almost taken aback. “Er—no, I’m not. Why did you ask that?”

“I’m trying to find an Auror,” James said matter-of-factly.

“Oh…” Ollie seemed faintly worried, “have you found something out that you need them for?”

“No, I want to find an Auror so I can figure out how to _be_ an Auror.”

“ _You_ want to be an _Auror_?” Grace interjected, squeezing herself between her brother and cousin. “Why?”

“Because it’s a noble cause,” James said, sounding very much like he had stolen the phrase from a pamphlet. “They keep witches and wizards safe by catching bad people and throwing them into Azkaban. They’ve got to be wicked brave and clever for that—”

“But you’re not brave or clever, so how can you become an Auror?” Grace posed with faux innocence.

James scowled at her, and sharply nudged his elbow against her side.

“Hey!” Grace cried out, and made to jam her elbow against James’s ribs.

“Alright,” Ollie said, swiftly coming between them. “How about we at least _try_ to avoid giving one another injuries?”

“He hit me!” Grace said, affronted. “Ollie, do something!”

“Me?”

“Yes, you’re the one in charge!”

Ollie glanced warily at James. “Don’t…do that,” he said lamely.

Grace gaped at him. “That’s it?!”

James smirked smugly from behind Ollie. Grace shot him a rude hand gesture that Ollie, perhaps thinking it wasn’t worth the trouble, decided to ignore.

“Grace, how about you? What do you want to do after Hogwarts?” Ollie asked, perhaps hoping to steer the conversation in another direction.

She let out a breath of frustration and shrugged. “I dunno—I sort of want to be a Seer.”

James scoffed. “You can’t just _be_ a Seer. You’ve got to be born that way.”

“That’s not true,” Ollie said, but he sounded rather half-hearted about it, and Grace knew he privately agreed with James. “I’m sure if you work hard at it—”

“It just seems like fun,” Grace said defensively. “I learned a lot from Vablatsky this year. Did you know she has people lining up outside her door _just_ so she can flip over a couple cards for them? That sounds like the best job ever.”

“Oh, so you want to be a fraud?” James said.

She darted behind Ollie and shoved at James, sending him tripping into a shrub. “And _you_ want to go shooting witches and wizards with hexes willy-nilly—”

“ _Bad_ witches and wizard,” James corrected, glaring at her darkly. He brushed off some leaves. “At least being an Auror is a respectable position—”

“What? And being a Seer isn’t?”

“Of course not! Everyone knows it’s just a scam.”

“If it’s such a big scam, how come there are so many people trying to get appointments with Vablatsky?”

“Because they’re dumb!” he said hotly.

“Can we have one visit where you two don’t fight?” Ollie cut in wearily, rubbing at his forehead.

“We’re not fighting,” Grace sniffed. “We’re just giving our opinions.”

James nodded. “This is just a spirited debate. We have a lot of them.”

Ollie glanced between them. “I’m sure you do,” he said dryly, and kept between them for the rest of their walk, only letting them return to each other’s side once they reached the entrance of the maze.

The maze was enormous, with verdant green hedges erupting from the ground in creative twists and turns. It had been a part of the manor for years and years now, although hardly anybody went into it anymore. The maze was so ancient that no one could quite remember where the center of it was, if there even was one. The only thing the Potter family was sure of was that there was _something_ in the depths of the labyrinth, some treasure or gold an ancestor of theirs had hidden. Over the years, James and Grace had concocted various schemes to sneak into the maze and find whatever it was that had been hidden. Time and time again, they were caught and told repeatedly that children were expressly forbidden from entering the maze.

But they were no longer children. Well—at least in their eyes, they weren’t.

“Alright,” James said readily, scouring the perimeter of the maze. He ran his hand along the hedge, ruffling his fingers through the heart-shaped leaves. “We need a strategy.”

“Why don’t we Wingardium someone into the air, and they can see which path leads to the center?” Grace suggested. “I volunteer James.”

“First of all,” James started exasperatedly. “The Levitation Charm doesn’t work on _people_ —”

“But it can work on your clothes,” Ollie cut in helpfully.

“Second of all,” James continued, ignoring his cousin, “I’m not going to stay in the air for hours trying to map out the right path to the center.”

“How about we try my idea?” Ollie told the two of them, smiling. “I’ve been trying different paths, one by one. Every time I hit a dead end, I go back and start off at the last junction. I think I have about half the path figured out. We can follow along on that, and then try to work out the rest—”

“ _No_ ,” James gasped out, positively aghast at the prospect of having to run through different iterations of the maze until they stumbled upon the right one. “No, I refuse to do that! It’ll take us _years_ to get to the center.”

“But we’ll get a decent start,” Ollie pointed out.

“I have a better idea,” James said. He rounded on the edge of the maze. “This whole thing is a circle, right? You can get to the center of a circle at any point along the circle if you just walk in a straight line.”

Grace frowned. “Yeah, but there isn’t going to be a path that’s just a straight line.”

“But we can make one,” James said instantly, poking a hand through the hedge of the maze. “We can just go through the hedges till we reach the center.”

“That sounds like cheating to me,” Grace said resolutely.

“What? No, it’s not,” James said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s just a shortcut.”

“But wouldn’t you rather know the _real_ path to get to the center instead of just taking a shortcut?” Ollie questioned.

James exhaled a quiet, frustrated breath. “I don’t care about the _real path_ ,” he said. “I care about what’s at the center of the maze!” He stuck his hands into the shrubbery, trying to create enough of an opening so that he could squeeze through. Grace saw a thicket of bramble scratch at his arms, leaving thin, faint white scratches. “You know what? If you lot want to do it the boring way, then _fine_! I’ll do it _my_ way.”

James stepped through the hedge. Grace stared at him, somewhat impressed by the breadth of his reckless stupidity.

“James, you can’t just go off on your own,” Ollie said disapprovingly. “We’re supposed to go together, and you’ll get lost if you go by yourself. Look, there’s a path we can follow—”

“I make my own paths!” James called back as he disappeared into the leaves.

“James—no!—get back here—!” Ollie cried out in vain. He let out a large groan, and cupped his forehead in his hands. “Does he _always_ do this?”

“Oh, yes,” Grace nodded gravely. “I think he has Idiot’s Illness, but no one will take me seriously and get him checked at St. Mungo’s.”

Ollie’s lips twitched upwards for a moment. He waved his wand over the hedge James wriggled through, causing an opening to appear. “I suppose we’ll just go after him this way. Come on.”

They wandered through hedge after hedge, Ollie lazily slitting open small entrances for them to climb through. Sometimes, a hedgerow didn’t appear for a while, and Ollie and Grace simply strolled over the damp turf at a leisurely pace. Grace was not in any sort of hurry to reach James, and Ollie seemed to figure that as long as they were going along the same path James was, they would catch up with him eventually.

It was only when the maze grew narrower and smaller that this changed. Grace heard a jubilant voice cry out, “I found it! There’s _treasure_ —!”

Her eyes widened and she snapped her head up to Ollie, who was rather nonplussed. “He found something!” Grace said urgently. “Ollie, we’ve got to—”

“It’s only a few more—”

“I can’t let him open it first! He’ll be bragging about this _forever_!” She hurtled beyond her cousin, dashing off through the oncoming hedges, crawling through the thick leaves.

“No—Grace—! Oh, bollocks!”

She soon emerged at the center, which was a wide, open circle. The sun was settled above it directly, and shone down with bright, dazzling rays. James, skin lit gold, hair mussed and leaf-strewn, was in front of a large white pedestal, upon which there was ancient, rusty trunk. The trunk had been opened, but James was not looking inside it. He was looking at the opposite end of the small clearing, where there was a small crowd of…Quidditch spectators?

They were dressed in Gryffindor colors, crimson and gold, although Grace didn’t recognize any particular student, if they were even students.

“Where’d they come from?” Grace asked, brows lifted so high they seemed almost on the verge of taking off from her forehead entirely.

James was staring at the spectacle. “I dunno—they came out the box—”

“What?” Grace started, staring at the crowd. She realized with a start that some of the banners the crowd was holding said ‘POTTER’ with crosses and x-marks littered over the name. “How’d they get all those people in there?”

“Does it look like I—?”

“Pathetic!” one of the students in the crowd started, causing James and Grace to jump.

“Potter’s the worst player I’ve ever seen!” another chimed in. “Look at him! He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing!”

“Horrible form—”

“Terrible aim—”

“No wonder we’re dead last—”

“Who even gave him a broom? He’s awful—”

“Probably the worst player in existence—”

“His family must be ashamed—”

And on and on it went. Grace was gaping at the crowd, trying to wrap her mind over _how_ in Merlin’s name all these people had gotten onto Potter property if they hated James so much? She glanced at her brother, and found that he was wide-eyed, mouth slightly agape. He scrambled back, away from the furious, jeering crowd, but tripped over the edge of the pedestal. He landed flat on his back, and let out a groan of pain.

“James!” Grace ran towards her fallen brother.

“‘M fine,” he murmured, pushing himself up off the ground, wincing as his hand brushed against the crown of his head.

“You can’t _do_ that!” she started vehemently at the shifting Quidditch crowd. The people within were behaving rather oddly—shuddering and bubbling, rising and falling, disintegrating and reforming—but Grace’s rage gripped her mind like a vise. She would not rest until she got all her fury out. She rose, hiding her brother from view. “That—that’s terrible of you! And James is actually a _great_ player. Gryffindor won the Cup—”

The group of Quidditch spectators vanished completely from sight, and Grace’s words halted, burrowing down deep into her throat. Her brows were drawn, watching with a terrified bewilderment as whatever entity that formed the crowd began to reform again. It was not any sort of illusion, as Grace had begun to think it might be. It was something real. It was—

A yawning dark: night air made thick and tangible, inky black seeping into the atmosphere, growing larger and larger, as though it were going to devour the world. Within it, she could she flashes of something—memories that had been torn from the moment so quickly that they became shards, a splintered reality. In the depths of this dark void, she saw the curve of glass, a window ballooning. She saw the sheen of porcelain transform into a ghostly peacock. She saw the red tips of poinsettias grow larger and sharper, until they seemed almost like drops of blood, until they seemed almost like a pair of slitted crimson eyes—unyielding, relentless, cruel. She saw more warped objects flit by in the dark: blurry figures in the background, more shadow than human, and flashes of color so vivid that Grace’s eyes burned.

She had seen all this before, when she was pushed so far back into the annals of her mind she couldn’t really tell if she was alive anymore. She knew what this was. She was not so much afraid as she was struck to the bone. An overwhelming chill enveloped her. She couldn’t find it in herself to move. She was trapped in this everlasting dark. Despite the endlessness of it, despite the vastness of it, the possibility of it, she always found it kept her still.

“Oh,” she said feebly, staring into the deep black.

“You two can’t keep run—” Ollie swallowed his words as he found himself face-to-face with Grace’s worst fear. The shock quickly wore off, though, and he pointed his wand at the dead center of the growing dark. “It’s always something with you two,” he muttered under his breath before stepping in front of Grace.

The darkness shrank and shrank until it disappeared completely, until it resettled into something else entirely: a vast, unquenchable wildfire that spread along the rim of the hedges, licking the whole of the clearing in flames. Grace stared dumbly at the oncoming trail of fire.

“Grace!” James cried out in panic, and pulled her down, out of harm’s way. She came tumbling down besides him.

“Riddikulus!” Ollie yelled, and jabbed his wand forward.

The flames retreated and settled into a pleasant little fireplace, the top of which was decorated with Christmas stockings. Soon, the fire dissipated into smoke. The hearth crumbled and broke away. The whole of the illusion trickled into a grey ash that swept itself back into the trunk atop the pedestal. With a sharp flick of his wand, Ollie closed the trunk, padlock snapping over the front tightly.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Grace simply stared at where the Quidditch crowd had been, where the thick dark had sat, where the wildfire had spread from. Ollie fussed around the trunk, making sure it was indeed locked. James was looking at Grace with a cross of worry and apprehension.

“What was that?” James asked at last, voice thick and haunted.

“A Boggart,” Ollie murmured. “I don’t think it was meant to be in that chest. It probably spawned there after decades of—”

“No, I meant—” his eyes were glued to Grace’s profile, “—when you came, it changed into something…but it wasn’t just the dark. It was different than that. It was…” he searched for a word and said, pathetically, “bigger.” He paused for a moment, waiting for Grace’s reaction, but he received nothing but a numb silence. Again, he probed, “What was that?”

Grace stared at the green of the grass beneath her feet. The blades of grass were thick and long, sleek and waxy enough that they almost shone gold underneath the bright, relentless stare of the sun. She liked the way light managed to do that—make things brighter, make them blaze and dazzle.

“It’s okay,” Ollie said very softly. He pulled her up from the ground, and put an arm around her, squeezing her shoulders in comfort. “We don’t have to think about it. It’s gone now. Let’s get back to the manor.”

She nodded numbly, and followed Ollie along the shadows of the maze. James padded behind them, continuing to throw fretful looks her way, continuing to glance down at her with that worried grimace stitched onto his face, with the troubled look in his eye that screamed, _What was that? What was that? What was that?_

It was the world come undone. It was her mind in splinters. It was what she saw, what she grasped (loosely, like how a fumbling, trembling hand might try to gather water), in the moments between collapse and revival. It was the measure of her illness, the threat of being trapped in her own head, of never waking up from a paroxysm.

* * *

Thankfully, neither James nor Ollie mentioned the incident in the maze when they got back to the manor. Grace did not want her parents to find out about her Boggart. She figured they might do something ridiculous, like put bluebell flames in the corners of her room at night, so she’d never have to be in the dark again. Or perhaps even burn away the night entirely.

They had a brief early supper in Uncle Charlus and Aunt Dorea’s ridiculously large dining hall. Grace did not talk much, her thoughts shifting, now and again, to that inky black gash in the sky. James, sullen in the beginning, quickly warmed up, throwing himself into the conversations that flung between the adults. This did not particularly surprise Grace; he had always bounced back faster.

It was only when evening began to settle, when the sun began its descent over the horizon, that Mum and Dad decided that they had best be going. Grace stuck to James’s side, slightly behind, in a way that was reminiscent of how she used to follow him around as a toddler, as they took the Floo. Her glum mood did not go unnoticed.

“Are you alright, darling?” Mum asked when they were back in the summer home.

“Yes,” Grace said readily, not quite meeting her mother’s eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“It has been rather a long day, hasn’t it?” Dad said, stroking Grace’s hair, inadvertently getting his fingers caught in her tangles. “Ah—Merlin, Gracie, we ought to get you some Sleekeazy’s—”

“ _We_ don’t use Sleekeazy’s,” James said haughtily, lounging on the pull-out bed in the center of the summer home. “We’re better than that.” He ran his hands through his hair, mussing it up even more, as if to prove some sort of point.

Grace decided not to ask, merely slinking away from her father and climbing up onto the pull-out, besides her brother. The Potter’s summer home was a little double-pen house situated a few miles away from the nearest Muggle town, Falmouth. They were in a more deserted area, where the shore meted out into craggy rock, where the sea warped into something rougher.

The summer home wasn’t anything spectacular, not like their warm, spacious cottage back at Godric’s Hollow, but that was the point of it. It was a secluded little thing, far from their nosy neighbors and dull Bathilda. The sitting room was rather small and cramped (although it might have seemed bigger had it not been stuffed full with tents and sea pails and old cribs) and fed into a half-kitchen. There was an adjoining bathroom behind the pull-out bed. Besides it was a single bedroom, which Mum and Dad used. Grace and James, meanwhile, were meant to share the pull-out during the night.

“In any case,” Mum said, trying to smooth down James’s hair, much to his annoyance, “your father’s right. It’s been a long day. Why don’t we call it an early—”

“What? No!” James cried out immediately, swatting away his mother’s hands. “You said I could play by the shore today. Remember, Mum—you said so!”

Mum shared a glance with Dad. “It’ll be getting dark soon…but I suppose if you’re not tired yet...”

James let out a loud cheer, and immediately sprang up from the pull-out. He scrambled towards a pile of junk shoved to the corner of the sitting room, weaseling out a pail and shovel.

Grace watched him with a frown playing at her lips. “Can I go, too?” she asked rather apprehensively. She couldn’t just let James go on his own. Suppose a Boggart rose from the depths of the frothy ocean—what, then?

Dad blinked owlishly. “Of course you can—but aren’t you tired?”

“Not anymore. I want to see the shore,” she said resolutely, and began gathering her things at well.

“Alright,” Mum agreed, “but be careful. And don’t forget—you’re _not_ allowed by the rocks. If anything happens—”

“Call Dotty,” James finished, exasperated. “Yeah, we get it, Mum.” He was already heading towards the door, but glanced back at Grace. “Are you done yet?”

“Yes!” she said, gathering her pail in a light blue towel. She streaked towards James, following him out onto the tall, lean grass of the hill the summer home rested on.

“Be back before it gets dark—!” Mum’s voice called out.

They ran down the slope of the hillside, the feathery brush of the grass tickling Grace’s ankles. The sun was setting slowly, lighting the sky a brilliant red. Against the backdrop, Grace and James seemed little more than shadows flitting down to the sea.

It was only when soft grass melted into cool sand that the siblings stopped their mad dash for the shore. James settled into something of a stroll along the edge of the sea, now and again stopping and stooping over some patch of land, shovel tight in his hand. He eased out a myriad of treasures—seashells, pumice, even a few old Muggle toys—and eagerly dumped them into his pail.

Grace trailed along leisurely, kicking at the dirt, sticking close to James even though she didn’t have any real interest in digging around in the sand. After a few moments of utter silence, save for the distant squawking of seagulls and the crashing of the sea, Grace grew bored, deciding there wasn’t any danger at the beach. She settled by the shore, letting James go off, and nestled herself into the sand. 

The sun dipped below the horizon, and shadows swept over the vast ocean. Darkness climbed over the surface of it, a blanket unfurling, and Grace was struck still on the sandy shore. It looked very much like her Boggart—that shifting dark, the waves bobbing up and down, the glimpse of something enormous beneath the thin veneer of shadow.

“Hey,” James said after a while, padding towards her. He settled down besides her, digging his feet into the cool sand. “Here—I found this.”

From the depths of his pail, he took out a few smooth stones of frosty-green glass. He slipped them into her hands, and Grace marveled at the glossy surface. Her finger ran over the curve of the sea glass easily.

“Where’d you find these?” she asked, cupping the glass in her palms.

“Down by the rocks—”

“What?” she cried out. “You’re not supposed to go there—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved off easily. “But that’s the only place I’ve ever found sea glass, and I wanted to get you some. Look—” his eyes flew down to the sea glass Grace’s fingers were caged around, “—Mum and Dad can charm them to glow, and then you’ll have something bright in your room at night. This way, you can feel better.” Warmth curled in Grace’s heart. She was about to pull James into a bone-crushing hug when he added, “It’s really annoying when you’re mopey. You get all clingy, and—”

She scowled and shoved at him, sending him tumbling into the sand. “I’m _not_ clingy,” she said, but still followed him around the shore as the last rays of sunlight disappeared.

She spotted a few brown-speckled cowries shells dug into the sand, meticulously scooping them out and dusting off stray specks of sand. James attempted to make a dive into the ocean from one of the shorter rock cliffs, but Grace managed to stop him by threatening to steal his pail of mollusk shells.

By the time they got back to the summer home, she was so worn out that her Boggart was the absolute last thing on her mind. She just about collapsed onto the pull-out bed as soon as she reached it, James following only a minute or so later. After exchanging some quick, sleepy goodnights with their parents, the lights were put out and Grace snuggled deeper into the pull-out, cradling a throw pillow against her arms. Sleep was only an arm’s length away, but Grace never quite reached it, because an irate voice pierced through the quiet:

“You’ve got my quilt,” James hissed.

Grace cracked open her eyes. It took a moment for her to adjust to the dark, but she soon managed to make out James on his side of the pull-out, all wrapped up in his own fluffy blanket. “No, I don’t,” she said. “This is mine.”

“No, _that’s_ mine.” He threw her the quilt he was currently using. “This one is yours. It’s got stars on it.”

“Does it matter?” she sighed, making no attempt to exchange quilts.

“Yes!” James said, affronted. “That’s _my_ quilt. Mine has Snitches on it, and—”

Something large and heavy, perhaps a rock or a log, thudded against the side of the house, rattling the thin, makeshift walls. Grace shot up, head snapping from side to side, trying to figure out what might have fallen.

James was easing himself up. “What was—”

The thumping continued—mad and urgent—all around the the left wall, by the door and the closed window. With each frightening knock, Grace drew herself deeper and deeper into the pull-out.

“What is it?” Grace whispered, grasping James’s wrist so tightly he might as well have been handcuffed to her.

“How would I know?” His eyes fled about the shadowed room wildly. “Do you think it’s—”

Another loud thud rattled through the summer home. Grace flinched, and burrowed herself into the pull-out bed, behind James. “Go stop it!” she hissed at him, covering herself up with her blanket and James’s. Hopefully, the murderer that was banging on their window would not find her nestled deep inside the quilts.

“Me?” James said incredulously. “Why _me_?”

“You’re older—”

“So?”

“ _So_ , I’ve got more life to live than you! I can’t die _now_. I’ve got too much to look forward to!”

“You’re only ten months younger than me! We’re practically the same age!”

“Oh, that’s rich,” she scoffed. “Any other day, and you’d be bragging about how you’re a full _ten_ months older—”

“This is different!” James said with increasing urgency. He tugged back his quilt from Grace. “And give me that back—”

“No, _stop!_ ” she shrieked. “I need that—!”

“Stop screaming!” James yelled. “They’ll hear you!”

“They’ll hear _you!_ ”

Another vicious thud resounded through the room. James and Grace both looked at each, equally terrified, and simultaneously screeched, “MUMMY!”

The door to the single bedroom in the back was flung open, and the lights were flicked on. A bedraggled but otherwise wide-awake and frantic Mum leapt out, wand out-stretched. Behind her, a sleepy Dad followed in a crimson-striped nightcap, trying to stifle a yawn.

“What is—” Mum started, but she was cut off by another round of thumping.

“Oh, is that…?” Dad said, starting towards the window.

“No, Dad!” Grace cried out. “It’s a murderer!”

James clambered out of the pull-out and tried to reach for his father. “Don’t try to be brave, Dad! It’s not worth it!”

“It’s only an owl,” Dad called back with heavy amusement.

He lifted open the window, and a distressed, dark-winged owl flew inside the house. It hooted and cawed frantically, settling by Grace and nipping at her fingers.

“Ouch—okay, stop,” Grace commanded, untying the letter from its leg. As soon as the letter was in hand, the owl relaxed and flew back towards the window, intending to return home.

“What!” James said in shock, staring at the open window. “I almost had a heart attack because of a bleeding owl!”

“Language!” Mum scolded. “James Fleamont, you know better—”

James, perhaps in an attempt to avoid a lecture or perhaps because he really was shaken, collapsed amongst his blankets, swaddling himself. Pitifully, he mumbled out, “Mummy, that was really scary.”

As expected, Mum melted almost immediately. She perched herself on the edge of the pull-out, and hugged James to her side. “Oh, it’s alright, darling. There are wards up; you’re perfectly safe here. It was nothing but an owl…”

As James preened under Mum’s coddling, Grace ripped open her letter, eyes flying over the hastily scribbled writing:

> _G—_
> 
> _You won’t believe what happened! You really won’t! It’s horrible. I can’t even believe it. It’s really, really terrible. And Mother and Father kept it from me for weeks and weeks! I think Sirius even knew, and he didn’t tell me!_
> 
> _Andy’s been KIDNAPPED! And by MUGGLES! I don’t even understand how this could have happened! I suppose they must have caught her by surprise, or maybe she forgot her wand. Either way, I’m worried sick and I have no idea what to do! Worse still, Mother and Father and Sirius don’t even seem to care. Mother burned Andy’s name off the tapestry, like she’s really gone or something. I’ve no idea what to do, or even how to find her. I thought I might owl Cissy, but I don’t think she’d write to me. And I don’t know if I want to talk to Bella (she’s our oldest cousin) about this. I wanted to owl Andy and follow Rigel (that’s our owl; sorry if he was a little mean) to Andy, wherever she is, but Sirius told me that was a rubbish plan and to drop it. Now I’m completely out of ideas and I just wish Andy were back home._
> 
> _I figured I would write you to see if you’ve got any ideas. Let me know as soon as you do!_
> 
> _R.A.B._

“Who’s written you this late?” Dad asked curiously, coming by Grace.

“Dad—something terrible has happened,” Grace said, looking up at him with wide eyes and a deep frown. “Regulus told me that Andromeda—my friend from Divination—has been _kidnapped!_ By _Muggles!_ ”

“Muggles?” Mum repeated skeptically.

“Yes!” Grace said, aghast. She began marching towards the front door. “Dad, we _must_ go find Andromeda. We have to!”

“Er—hold on there, Gracie,” Dad said, wheeling her back around to the pull-out. “If your friend’s really been kidnapped, I’m sure her family has already alerted the authorities and the Aurors are on the case—”

“But maybe we can find them before they do!”

“Or maybe,” Mum suggested, “we should let the professionals do their job.”

“But—” Grace’s eyes swung to her brother. “James,” she tried, “we’ve got to do something—”

“What are _we_ going to do?” he said, snuggling himself deep into the pull-out. “Charm the kidnapper’s hair a different color? Fling a Dungbomb at their head?”

“No—we can go track them down, and—and find Andromeda! You said you want to be an Auror; this is what Aurors do!”

He turned over on his side. “Right now, Grace, I want to be asleep.”

Mum flicked off the lights, dousing the room in shadows. “We’ll see if we can do anything in the morning,” she said softly, settling Grace back into bed. She pressed a light kiss against Grace’s forehead, and retreated back into her bedroom. “Sleep well, darlings!”

But Grace couldn’t sleep, not without knowing whether or not Andromeda was okay. She tossed and turned in the pull-out, yanking at her quilt and, occasionally, James’s.

After a few minutes of this, James let out a long, frustrated groan. “How about this?” he said at last. “When we get back home, I’ll write Sirius and ask about his cousin? If she was really kidnapped, I reckon Sirius would have sent me a letter about it pretty much immediately, but he hasn’t—so maybe it’s something different. Or maybe his cousin’s already been found.”

Grace weighed this in her mind. Regulus had said his family had been keeping the news from him for a while; perhaps he only managed to find out half the story.

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Good,” James said. After a beat, he added, “You still have my quilt—”

“They’re basically the same—”

“Mine has Snitches!”

* * *

By the time the Potters returned to Godric’s Hollow, Grace’s parents had firmly decided that whatever it was that was going on in the Black family wasn’t any of their business, and, as such, they shouldn’t get involved. Besides, the Blacks have likely already dealt with it, or were dealing with it alongside the proper authorities.

This logic did nothing to pacify Grace. She decided to take things into her own hands. She had James send a letter to Andromeda with Goldie, intending on following the owl at a distance, but as soon as Goldie took off, he came back, confused and a little wary. He couldn’t tell where the recipient of the letter was. Mum very quickly figured that Andromeda must have placed an undetectable charm on herself and must not be ‘kidnapped,’ not really. She must be away, and must not want anyone to find her.

Grace was still not quite sure about any of this, because _why_ would Andromeda have gone away and not told anyone about it? She decided to wait for Sirius’s reply to James, hoping that he might have the full story. Thankfully, she did not have to wait long.

Only a week after Regulus’s owl arrived, Sirius’s did. James plucked the letter almost as soon as the owl was in view, and swiftly opened the envelope, pulling out a thick sheet of parchment.

“Let me see!” Grace scowled, trying to snatch the parchment from James’s hands.

James, who was very unfairly a head taller than her, raised the letter out of Grace’s reach. “What do you need to see it for?” he demanded. “Sirius sent _me_ this letter.”

“But I need to know what’s happened to Andromeda!” She jumped for the paper.

James, with his irritating Quidditch skills, went low. “I’ve got to read it first.”

“Why should you get to read it _first_?”

“I was _born_ first, so naturally—”

“Exactly! You’ve had enough firsts. Now it’s my turn.” Grace made to grab for the letter once more, but James evaded her grasp.

“James, why don’t you just read the letter out loud?” Dad called out wearily from the sitting room.

James let out a disgruntled sigh, but nevertheless cleared his throat and began to read aloud: “Hey James—things are rather dull here, but when aren’t they—”

“Oh, Merlin,” Grace groaned. “Can you just skip to the part about Andromeda?”

His eyes skimmed over the letter, finally landing on something halfway through the parchment: “The whole ‘kidnapping’ thing was a cover-up Andy’s family put out to save face. What _really_ happened was that Andy ran away. About time, if I say so myself.” James stopped and scanned over the rest of the letter before shrugging and looking at Grace. “That’s all he says about that.”

“What?” Grace nearly screeched. “That’s _it_? But _why_ did she run away? And _why_ didn’t she tell anyone? And _where_ did she go? And is she _okay_?”

“How am I supposed to know? Do I look like a bloody mind reader—”

“James,” Dad scolded, although it sounded more absentminded than cross.

James huffed, and took his letter away to his bedroom, presumably to pore over it and construct a carefully worded response to Sirius about all he’d been up to since he last wrote. Grace, meanwhile, collapsed on the sofa, and tried to figure out what in Merlin’s name had happened to Andromeda. Grace didn’t so much as want to know why Andromeda had run away so much as she wanted to ensure Andromeda was all right. Grace wanted to be able to write to Regulus at some point before the start of next term, and assure him that his cousin was fine.

But how could she find this out? If owls could not reach Andromeda? If Andromeda did not want to be found?

She thought on it a moment. Surely, if Andromeda were planning on running away, she would have asked someone for help, right? It must have been rather a lengthy process—collecting her possessions, saving up money, finding a place to stay. Andromeda must have had help throughout all this, and it certainly couldn’t have been anyone in her immediate family, seeing as it was them she was trying to avoid. But that didn’t mean Andromeda disliked everyone in her family. She certainly liked Sirius and Regulus; Grace was sure of that. Oh, and there had been that uncle of theirs—Alphard Black.

Alphard must be the only adult in that family who could be trusted with secrets, seeing as it was him who housed James and Grace’s playdate with Sirius and Regulus months and months ago. He was rather laidback and Sirius seemed to think the world of him. If Andromeda had asked anyone in her family for help, it must have been him. If Andromeda needed anything after running away, she would have asked him.

With a start, Grace ran up to her bedroom. She rummaged around her desk for a moment, before finding a quill and spare sheet of parchment. Quickly, she drafted out a message:

> _Dear Mr. Black,_
> 
> _It’s Grace Potter. I came over to your house one time with my brother, James. There were a bunch of flowers there and Sirius and Regulus fought for a few minutes and when my mum picked us up, she made a big fuss about James losing his scarf. I’m sure you remember._
> 
> _Anyway, I’m writing because I found out that Andromeda’s gone. I don’t know what’s happened, but I’m really worried. Andromeda is my friend, and I just want to make sure she’s okay. So, if you’re at all in contact with her, do you mind passing along this message to her: shattered knees._
> 
> _Thank you,_
> 
> _Grace_

As soon as she finished penning the last word, she sealed up the letter and had Mum attach it to the family owl, Hester. Grace waited earnestly for a reply, but one never came—at least not from Alphard himself. It was a full month later when Grace finally got an answer in the form of a stamped letter that had mysteriously found its way to her through the Muggle post. The sender’s address was a cottage in Wiltshire. She had been invited over for tea.

* * *

“What do you mean you don’t know this address?” Mum said with pursed lips. “It’s got to be here, doesn’t it?”

They were in the midst of some Muggle market in Wiltshire, trying desperately to find the cottage whose address Andromeda had provided in her letter. The Muggle man Mum had cornered by a stall was grasping at his frayed, tweed hat, nervously eyeing the billowing robes Grace and her mother were wearing.

“Er—” he started, snapping his eyes back up to meet Mum’s stern face, “—it’s as I said, ma’am: that whole area’s been knocked back for some development. There’s nothing there but rubble now—”

“But we’ve been invited over for tea!” Mum said exasperatedly, shoving the letter back into her purse. She glanced down at a put-out Grace. “I’m fresh out of ideas. I suppose we can go and check out the area, anyway. But if it’s all demolished, how in Merlin’s name—”

“M—Merlin?” the man sputtered out.

“Oh, dear,” Mum said, casting an alarmed look at the Muggle. She grabbed Grace’s hand and wheeled her away to a different section of the market, near a somewhat sizable baked goods section. “Alright—well, what do you propose we do now?”

Grace’s shoulders fell slack. “I dunno,” she said mournfully. “It must be _somewhere_ around here, though, right? Andromeda wouldn’t have invited me if there was no place to go.”

Mum hefted a sigh. “Why couldn’t she have asked to meet somewhere we knew? Like the Leaky Cauldron—we could have just Apparated there!”

Grace had no answer to this question. She had been wondering much the same. Why had Andromeda chosen this place? She could only assume this town, filled to the brim with Muggles, was the last place on earth the Black family would ever come. Andromeda would be safe to slip into obscurity here.

“I suppose we might as well head up towards the row of demolished buildings,” Mum said after a moment. She pulled Grace along past the little pastry stall. “If this cottage truly is gone, then I suppose there must have been some sort of mix-up, but I’ve no idea—”

“For Mer—I mean—” a loud, irritated voice cut through the air, “—look, I gave you two of these smaller silver ones last time. Why won’t it work this time round?”

Grace stopped in her tracks, her hand held onto loosely by her mother. She knew that voice. She had heard it snap and seethe in the same way at the Prewetts time and time again.

“What is it?” Mum said, looking down.

“I think that’s—” Grace twisted her head around, craning her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of a head of wavy, dark brown locks, “—there, Mum! That’s Andromeda!”

She was bent over a clerk’s counter, angrily passing several silver coins over the till. There were several scones packaged together neatly in a box with a ribbon tied tightly over it. The woman behind the register was growing increasingly worried as Andromeda took some paper notes out of her bag and began to toss them at her.

“Andromeda!” Grace called out, running towards the older woman. A great swoop of relief overcame her. Andromeda looked completely fine, if not a little disgruntled; she had all her fingers, and her features were in the correct places.

Andromeda’s head snapped towards Grace, and her scowl bled away into a beaming smile. “You’re here!”

“Yeah! My mum’s here, too—”

“Grace, don’t you ever run off like that again,” Mum scolded, coming up behind her. Her eyes caught onto Andromeda’s, and she smiled tensely. “Ah, hello. You must be Andromeda?”

“Oh, yes,” Andromeda said, and reached a hand out to Mum, inadvertently dropping several of her coins over the counter. “Bollocks,” she grumbled, shifting mid-motion to pick them up. “Sorry, I wasn’t meant to go shopping today,” she said as she meticulously picked up each coin, “but I’d just realized that we haven’t any scones, and I thought I’d just nip down and get some really quickly. Usually, it’s Ted who does the shopping, but he was changing Nymphadora, and I figured I might as well go. The quicker, the better, right?”

She righted herself, and Grace saw, for the first time, how _tired_ Andromeda seemed. There were deep, violet circles ringing her eyes, and her cheeks were sallow. Her hair was frizzy and tied together hastily in a bun. There was a stain along her dark blouse.

“Er—” the woman at the till started, “—would you mind paying—?”

“Yeah, hold on—” Andromeda rummaged helplessly through the notes and coins in her hands. “You know what? Just take it!” She shoved all the money in her hands at the poor clerk.”

“Ma’am,” the woman began, wide-eyed, “this is nearly fifty pound—”

“Give me whatever’s left over,” Andromeda said wearily. Her eyes fell back to Grace and her mother. “I’m glad I bumped into you two. We can head over to the cottage together—”

“About that cottage,” Mum began, eyes narrowed in suspicion, “I was asking around, and it seems that no one knows of it.”

Andromeda’s hand met her forehead. “Oh, right! Merlin—I completely forgot. Of course, of course. You see, we’ve put the Fidelius up, along with some other wards, so our house must seem abandoned to anyone who looks at it.”

Mum grew rigid. “The Fidelius? Is this a dangerous neighborhood?”

Andromeda grabbed her change from the clerk along with the box of scones. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that…” she let out a frustrated breath, “Ted and I thought it might be best, so that my family doesn’t catch wind of us.”

Mum’s eyes softened considerably. She opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it and swallowed down her words.

Grace’s brows were furrowed. “Ted’s with you, too?”

Andromeda smiled. “Oh, yes. He’s back at the cottage.” She lifted her box of scones. “I’ve got what I came for, so we can head over now, if you’d like.”

Grace agreed instantly, and trailed alongside Andromeda as she led them past the Muggle market. They walked speedily, with Grace chatting all the while about how slowly the summer was going and how she couldn’t wait for term to start again. The open fields gradually melted into something more forested, with thick-trunked oak trees spurting from the ground, clustering together. The further they went, the more sparse the houses became, until, finally, the trio arrived at a quaint little cottage with a back garden in full bloom.

“This is yours?” Grace asked as she darted straight for the front door. It was painted a cheery yellow, and had the name ‘TONKS’ painted neatly. There was a postbox sitting near the porch, but it had grown dusty from disuse.

“Yeah—well, technically, it belongs to Ted’s Mum’s,” Andromeda said as she opened the front door. “By the way—if you’ve got the letter with the address on it, you should burn it. So the Fidelius stays intact.”

“Oh, of course,” Mum said, and promptly fished out the letter Andromeda had just sent with the intention to do just that.

Grace stepped into the Tonks home, and marveled at the brightly painted walls, the plant potters hanging from the ceiling, the doilies atop the sofa and armchairs, and the litany of children’s books spread over every conceivable surface. The cottage was not as large as Grace’s, but it was just as homely. As Grace traced over the wall of the room, she spotted a glimpse of the kitchen countertop, and noted a tray of apple tarts cooling. The smell of cinnamon wafted through the house.

“‘Dromeda, is that you?” a familiar voice called out. Out from the top of the banister stepped a haggard Ted. His fair hair was bedraggled, and there was a shadow of a beard overtaking his chin.

“Yeah—Grace and her mum have arrived,” Andromeda replied.

As Ted made his way down, Grace saw, to her utter astonishment, that there was a baby—a real, live, actual baby—swaddled in a blanket and nestled into the crook of his arm.

“Good Godric!” Mum gasped. “She is simply _precious_!”

“Merlin’s pants!” Grace exclaimed. “You two made a _baby?_ When did this happen? I didn’t even _notice_.” She looked at Andromeda suspiciously. “Your belly didn’t even get big.”

Andromeda smiled bemusedly. “That’s what glamour charms are for.”

“Grace,” Mum scolded quietly. “You shouldn’t be prying into others’ affairs.” She looked up at Andromeda sheepishly. “I’m terribly sorry, dear.”

“It’s quite alright,” Andromeda assured. She gestured at the sofa. “You two should sit! Would you like anything? Tea?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Mum said, leaning over towards the baby. “What’s her name?”

“Nymphadora,” Andromeda said proudly.

“Nymphadora?” Grace repeated. “What sort of name—”

“ _Grace_ ,” Mum hissed.

“Honestly, it _is_ a bit unusual,” Ted agreed, laughing. “I’ve just been calling her Dora.” He smiled down at Nymphadora and cooed at her. “Isn’t that right, Dora?”

Nymphadora let out a small squeal of delight, and her hair—a sparse tuft of black—promptly turned a bright, dizzying shade of yellow.

Grace gaped.

Mum blinked owlishly. “Is she…?”

“A Metamorphmagus? Yeah, she is.” Andromeda sighed, collapsing on the sofa. “It was entertaining in the beginning, but then I realized how much of a headache that particular skill will be later on…”

“What do you mean? it’s wicked!” Grace cried out, peering down at the baby. “Can she do it again?”

Nymphadora blinked up at her with interest. Her big blue eyes changed into a bright hazel that matched Grace’s almost exactly.

“Oh—she’s so talented,” Mum murmured. “Spectacular, really.”

Andromeda grinned. “She is, isn’t she?”

They cooed over Nymphadora for a bit longer, Grace trying to get the baby to change her hair and eyes to even more colors, but soon Nymphadora’s lips trembled and she let out a heart-wrenching sob.

“Oh, she likely needs a bottle,” Mum said readily. “Have you got one? Shall I help you warm one up—”

“That’s alright. You don’t need to—” Ted started, but Mum was already halfway through to the kitchen.

“Please, I insist on helping,” Mum called back. “We’re your guests, after all.”

“You should let her help you,” Grace told Ted sagely. “Mum’s been going through our old photo albums and staring at pictures of James and me when we were little. I think she wishes we were babies again and didn’t have to go off to Hogwarts all year round.”

“Where are your bottles?” Mum yelled back.

“Ted,” Andromeda sighed.

“Er—hold on, Mrs. Potter—!” Ted cried out, and sped towards the kitchen, trying frantically to calm a bawling Nymphadora.

“This baby thing is a lot harder than I thought it would be,” Andromeda murmured. She waved her wand around lazily, and two mugs of tea appeared on the coffee table in front of her. She gestured at Grace. “Make yourself comfortable, please.”

Grace settled onto the lumpy, secondhand couch opposite Andromeda. She picked up a mug. “So—why didn’t you tell me about the baby?”

Andromeda laughed. “ _That’s_ what you’ve got to ask? Merlin, Grace, I didn’t tell _anyone_ about the baby. I didn’t even tell Ted for a good couple of months, because I was completely in denial.”

“Oh,” Grace said, somewhat dejected. She shifted her cup of tea slightly. The ceramic of the mug was so hot it was beginning to blister her fingers. “So you didn’t invite me just to show me your secret baby?”

“I invited you for a lot of reasons,” Andromeda assured. She settled deeper into the sofa, and took a long draught of her tea. “There’s something I wanted to tell you, actually. It’s a bit serious.”

Grace’s brows flew up. “Er—okay…? What is it?” Her eyes grew wide. “Merlin—you’ve got _another_ secret baby?”

“No, no…it’s just…well, do you tune into the news, now and again?”

Grace stared at her. “Er…I suppose. I know that the Holyhead Harpies are out of the running for the World Cup, which is rather devastating, but—”

“Alright, so you don’t read the news,” Andromeda muttered. “Perhaps I should just come out with it?”

“With what?”

Andromeda took another sip of her tea. She closed her eyes briefly before flickering them open. She righted herself on the couch, and her shoulders grew rigid. “Something is coming,” she said, and her voice was tight and drawn. “I’ve told others, but hardly anyone listens to an eighteen-year-old fresh out of Hogwarts with a baby. People think that the old pure-blood families, the ones like mine, are destined to fade into the backdrop. But there’s been chatter about reclaiming their ancestry or some such bollocks. There’s some sort of… _manifesto_ that’s been circulating. And I don’t think people—I don’t think the Ministry or the papers—think it’s anything serious, the chatter they hear. They think it’s all empty words, but I don’t think so.” She swallowed thickly and said, again, “Something is coming. Something terrible.”

The black of Andromeda’s eyes was so wide and dark that Grace’s mind fled instantly to the void that was her Boggart—that staunch, unrelenting darkness, that realm from which nothing, not sound, not light, not even thought, could escape. She thought of the blistering ache that ran through her temples, the way she fell into unconsciousness after hours of screams. She thought of the cool of the dark, the pyrrhic relief it offered, the compulsion of it, the inevitability of it.

“Oh,” was all Grace could manage to say, and hastily ducked her head. She sipped at her tea, and smothered a hiss when it burned the tip of her tongue. “Is that why you ran away from home?”

It took Andromeda a moment to answer this question. She leaned back againstthe armchair, blowing on the surface of her cup. “Yeah, sort of. It’s…difficult growing up where I did.”

Grace felt this was certainly an understatement. While she had not seen any of the older members of the Black family, she had heard Walburga Black once. And that had been more than enough; the snarl that ripped from that woman was bone-chilling enough to frighten a Dementor.

“I know you were worried about me,” Andromeda continued softly. She smiled slightly. “That was sweet of you. As you can tell, I’m very much fine.”

Grace relaxed. “Yeah—it was Regulus who wrote to me. He was worried, too. Is it okay if I tell him you’re fine?”

She weighed this in her mind. “Er—yeah, but don’t mention the house or where I am or anything like that.” She cocked her head slightly. “I suppose you couldn’t mention that anyway, given the Fidelius, but still… You can just tell Regulus that I’m fine. I’m very happy.”

“Can I tell him about your secret baby?” she asked eagerly.

Andromeda snorted. “I suppose. I suspect he might have already found that out, though. Nymphadora’s name must have appeared on the tapestry.”

“Oh, right—” Grace’s brows furrowed, “—what’s this tapestry business about? Regulus mentioned your name’s been burned off of it.”

“Oh, has it? I suppose it was about time.” Andromeda took a sip of her tea. “It’s just a family tree of all Blacks. Aunt Walburga has rather a nasty habit of burning off those she feels have besmirched the family name.”

Grace wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so she merely nodded jerkily and took another mouthful of her piping hot tea. Over the rim of her own mug, Andromeda watched Grace carefully.

“I didn’t call you over just to warn you,” Andromeda said. “It’s more like…I’ve got a favor to ask. As I’ve said…something’s coming. And I’m afraid that those of my family—my sisters and my cousins—will get pulled into it. Bella—” Andromeda hesitated, “—might be beyond saving, and I’ve been writing to Cissy…but she hasn’t been responding.”

Grace desperately hoped Andromeda wasn’t asking her to reach out to Narcissa Black on her behalf. “What do you want me to do exactly?”

“Just…look out for Regulus,” Andromeda said, voice soft. “Sirius will be fine, I think. But it’s Regulus I’m worried about the most. He’s the youngest, and he’s always been the most impressionable...and, in Slytherin, good influences are hard to come by.”

Grace brightened instantly. She didn’t think this would be a particularly difficult task. “Sure,” she said easily. “Regulus and I are best friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this story! I really hope you've enjoyed it!
> 
> The second part of this series ('Falling') is up now, too!


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